have fun babyyyy. Indulge in his hotness.
Amelia
Layla..
I don’t bother responding. I toss my phone into my purse and begin to rummage through my drawers until Ifind something stunning to wear and head straight for the shower.
Peeling off my dusty tank top, I wince, the ache in my shoulders feels like I’ve been hit by a truck. My leggings come off next, stiff with dried sweat and enough dirt to pot a houseplant. I fling them into the corner of the bathroom with more force than necessary.
I let out a loud groan as I take in this horrendous shower. Twisting the handle, the pipes sputter like they’re fifty years old, but to my relief, a steady stream comes rushing out.
I step in, and the second that hot water hits my skin, I let out a sigh so deep it probably reached Beverly Hills. The heat melts into me, softening the tight muscles in my shoulders, washing away the layers of grime, sweat, and all the leftover shame of spending my day knee-deep in horse shit.
I’ve never worked this hard in my fucking life.
Water droplets fall off my skin as I step out of the shower and roll my shoulders, wincing at the dull ache. Carter probably got a kick out of watching me suffer all day.
I wrap the towel tightly around my body and slide my lavender headband into place, pushing my damp hair back with a sigh. The mirror’s still foggy, but my skincare products gleam beneath the lights.
I take my time, dabbing on toner, patting in serum, and smoothing moisturizer over my cheeks with delicate precision. Because who the hell wants to age? Ew.
“Hurry up!” Carter calls from down the hall.
I don’t even flinch.
“Go away!” I shout back, tapping in my eye cream.
He’s so annoying, oh my God.
Standing in front of the full-length mirror, I tighten the strap on my limited edition black Balmain belt, admiringthe way it hugs my waist. My fitted white bodysuit is smooth and seamless, tucked perfectly into high-waisted designer jeans that make my legs look miles long, and cup my ass like a fucking dream.
And the shoes?
Oh, don’t even get me started. They’re a pair of black Louboutins, fucking stunning.
My hair is freshly blown out, soft dark brown waves falling perfectly past my shoulders. I spritz a touch of my signature perfume, the aroma of brown sugar and vanilla filling my nose.
A few Cartier love bracelets and rings, gold catching the dim ranch lighting just right. My eyes rake over my reflection in the dingy mirror.
Much better.
I snatch my LV Speedy Bandoulière off the bed and strut toward the front door, my Louboutins click against the old wooden floors. The second I step outside, I’m hit with a wave of dry, dusty air that wraps around me, and I have to will myself not to gag.
This isn’t air, this is punishment in particle form.
Drama much? I know.
I’m met with Carter leaning against his truck like he’s posing for the cover of some sexy ranch calendar. His muscular arms are crossed over his annoyingly perfect chest. His white T-shirt stretches across those broad shoulders like it’s fighting for its life, and his faded jeans hang low on his hips. The brown boots he wears are scuffed and dusty, like he does the work he barks at me about, and his dusty, black cowboy hat sits on his head.
My eyes trail over him before I can stop myself.
He looks hot, like ruin my fucking life hot.
He has to look like this AS I’m ovulating. Love this for me.
The second his eyes land on me, his entire body goes rigid. Like, I just offended his precious man truck with a stupid ovary logo or whatever the fuck that is, with my existence.
He scoffs. “You’re late, and please tell me you aren’t serious.”
