That’s basically confirmed when his lip twists into a sneer and he says, “Oh, you. Hi.”
My eyebrows dip in confusion about where this aversion to me seems to come from. “Hey, Whit. Have you met my mom yet?”
His gaze slides over my shoulder, and he shakes his head, his expression brightening when she must notice him.
“Hi, dear.” My mom comes up beside me, drying her hands on her apron—an apron she must’ve brought from home because there’s no way Conrad owns that—and holding out her hand for Whit to shake. “I’m Diane, Sterling’s mom.”
“Nice to meet you, Diane,” he greets her back, much more politely than he speaks to me. “I’m Whit.”
“Nice to meet you. Are you in the rodeo too?”
Whit chuckles. “Oh, heck no. I’m the vet. I have a clinic in town.” He drags his gaze back to me, the polite expression still in place, probably more for my mom’s sake than mine. “Have you seen Conrad lately?”
I shake my head. “Not in the last twenty minutes, but I know he was heading out to check on Bertha.” Bertha is one of the mares that Whit’s been coming to take care of lately. She’s pregnant and about to pop any day now. “Have you, uh, talked to Shooter?”
As soon as the question leaves my mouth, I regret it. Especially when Whit’s eyebrow arches, and his lip twists into a knowing smirk.
“We rode here together,” is all he says.
“He’s here?”
Nodding, he grabs a piece of watermelon out of the bowl. “Unless he left in the last five minutes.”
He walks away after that, and I finish chopping up the fruit, an uneasiness growing in my gut knowing Shooter is here. The last time we saw each other, when he came here with Whit, we didn’t get to talk more than a quick hello, but I’ve found myself, more than once, wanting to reach out. Every time the urge arises, I mentally scold myself, though, because nothing good will come from that.
I’m rinsing off the knife and chopping board when I spot Shooter out the window. He’s standing beside a tree, talking to a couple of people I don’t recognize; a guy and a girl. They’re laughing at something he must’ve said. He’s wearing a pair of straight leg, dark wash jeans, a heather gray t-shirt that’s sinfully tight across his chest and around his arms, and he’s got a baseball cap on, and a pair of tawny boots underneath the jeans.
A Solo cup rests in his hand. His cheeks look flushed, even from all the way over here, and it could be the weather, butI’d bet it’s from what he’s drinking. He’s grinning at the people around him, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. If Daisy is right, and Shooter’s shitty attitude stems from his dad, he’s probably not feeling any better since being home.
Concern unfurrows in my chest, similar to how it’s done for days, the need to somehow make him feel better filling me, the feeling strange to me.
My mom asks me to do something else for her, so I step away from the kitchen window. When I look back out, he’s gone. I kind of hate the urge to go find him. That’s ridiculous. We aren’t friends, we barely tolerate each other. Who cares if we’ve hooked up a few times? It doesn’t mean anything.
After I finish helping in the kitchen, I head out back, toward my room. I’ve been on the go since early this morning, and I’m desperately in need of an outfit change. Truthfully, a shower would be great, but I’m not about to do that with a house full of people. That seems like it would be weird.
Climbing up the stairs in the barn, the loft is the entire second level. It’s not a bad space for one person. It’s spacious, and the views are nice from the window. The only downside is it doesn’t have air conditioning, and it gets pretty warm up here, especially times like right now when the sun’s beating down. I have a portable AC unit, which helps a little, but it’s nowhere near as good as central air.
I reach behind me, tugging my shirt over my head before pulling open my dresser and grabbing a fresh one. Swiping my stick of deodorant off the top, I quickly apply some before moving to put the shirt on. But before I can, footsteps sound on the stairs, and when I glance over my shoulder, Shooter comes into view.
My stomach jumps into my throat at the sight of him leaning against the doorjamb. “What are you doing up here?”
He doesn’t reply right away. Blue eyes sharp as they watch me while he stalks toward me, quickly closing the distance between us. Only when he’s right in front of me does he respond. “Can’t stop thinking about you,” he admits, voice raspy.
I can’t stop thinking about you either,I want to say.
The whiskey on his breath surrounds me, and the worry I felt when he first showed up intensifies. It’s barely two in the afternoon, and if his breath and the redness in his eyes is anything to go off of, he’s well past tipsy. And since he’s only been here about thirty minutes, I doubt he showed up here sober.
Willing my heartbeat to slow the heck down, I ask, “Are you okay?”
A lazy grin tugs on the corner of his lips. “I’d be a lot better if you kissed me already.”I really wish he wouldn’t say things like that to me.Shooter’s gaze rakes over my exposed chest, his grin only growing. “You’re hot as fuck…you know that?”
“And you’re drunk,” I toss back, my body heating from his brief perusal.
The touch of his finger sears into my skin as he drags it along my collarbone softly, tracing. Featherlight. Goosebumps blossom in his wake, spreading down my torso as a chill runs through me.
“I’m notdrunk,” he counters, lip poked out almost in a pout, finger trailing down until it’s circling the tightened, hard bud of my nipple. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from moaning. “God, look how responsive you are for me.” The way he says it, almost absentmindedly, it’s like he’s saying it more to himself than to me. “Such a dirty boy.Mydirty boy.”
His dirty boy?!My heart catapults against my ribs at that possessive statement, and I’m sure he can feel it with the way his fingers are on my chest.
