Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 110113 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 551(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110113 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 551(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
I’m still annoyed I didn’t have a Tide pen on me. Ava’s shirt is probably gonna be ruined. Unless I get my hands on it, of course. In the literal and figurative sense.
Don’t hate that idea. I’ve only known Ava for all of ten minutes, but the sharp-edged attraction I feel for her is something I haven’t experienced in a long-ass time. She’s gorgeous. She’s also funny. Self-deprecating in a way I like.
Kind, too.
Ava stays close as I lead her to the dance floor, our hands linked. The honky-tonk gets more crowded by the minute, and I quickly give up on my mission to join my brothers and her sisters up by the stage.
People press in on us from all sides. When Ava leans into me, touching her breasts to my back in an attempt to remain close, my body pulses so hard that I worry I’m going to black out.
Immediately, I think about doing the smart thing. The practical thing. It’s a knee-jerk reaction, an impulse forged in the fires of fatherhood.
I should get her back to her sisters. Close my tab and take my brothers to that brewery we passed earlier. It’s near the hotel, so we could walk home and get to bed at a decent hour. We need to be on the road by noon tomorrow, and I don’t want to be too hungover when I get back to the ranch …
But then I remember I came to Austin to do the exact opposite of what’s practical. In my life back home, I’m always thinking ahead. Always anticipating what needs to happen next so the day, and the day after that, can run smoothly. That’s how my mom and dad were as parents, and our home was a happy one because of it.
I want Ella’s home to be happy too. It’s work I don’t mind doing, but it’s still work. Some days I feel like all I do is complete task after task on a never-ending to-do list. Easy to forget to have fun when you live that way.
Which is why I’m determined to have fun while I can here in Austin. Gotta strike while the iron is hot.
While the girl you’re with is hot, more like it.
Keeping her hand in mine, I turn around to face her. We’re close enough that I can smell her perfume. It’s a scent I can only describe as springtime, bright and flowery. She tilts up her chin to meet my eyes. The green in hers is lit up, her lips curving into a small but potent smile.
She didn’t laugh at me when I was a dork at the bar. Instead, she laughed with me, making fun of herself in the process. Makes me feel safe.
Safe enough to just go for it, even if I am a rusty, awkward mess.
I guide her hand up to my shoulder, pulling her close as the band plays a Dolly Parton cover. Ava is holding her beer in her other hand, but she still curls that arm into my chest. Awareness blooms to life south of my navel, a flush of weighted warmth that moves through my abdomen and settles in the front of my thighs.
Guess she ain’t afraid to put herself out there, either, because she begins to move. A slow, rhythmic swaying of her hips that has her pressing against me, her legs gliding between my own.
I really like that.
Slipping a hand around her waist, I spread my fingers on the small of her back and pull her closer. So close that our bellies are flush. I slip my leg between hers, moving my hips in time to the music. Ava digs her teeth into her bottom lip.
Aw, yeah, she definitely likes that.
We find our rhythm with surprising ease. When the song ends, Ava lets out a holler, but she doesn’t take her hands off me. The band plays a Kenny Chesney song next, Darius Rucker after that. All the while Ava and I keep dancing. She finishes her beer and I finish mine, and I quickly set the bottles on a nearby ledge.
Now her hands are all over me. She runs them up my chest and circles my neck with her arms, shaking the hair out of her face before looking up at me. The happiness I see in her eyes—the little lines at the edges, the flash of heat in the pupils—makes my breath catch.
Leaning in, I brush my scruff against her cheek. “You’re a fuckin’ knockout, you know that?”
In reply, she slips her hand into the hair at the nape of my neck. My pulse seizes, a bolt of pure lust cracking down my middle as she gently glides her fingertips over my scalp.
“My wild’s not turning you off?”
“Hell no. Your wild is the hottest thing about you.”
She grins. “So is yours.”