Page 31 of Seeking Her Studs

He reaches down and pulls up the shirt so my ass is bare and grabs greedily, filling his palms.

We both laugh into our kiss at his usage of the assless chaps for exactly what I would have guessed they were for, anyway.

And then our laughs turn into breathy moans as he pulls me into him, his cock pressed tight against our stomachs.

“Dan, can you come to register five?” A loudspeaker announces loudly over the monotonous music and sends us gasping as we break apart from each other.

“Shit,” I cuss under my breath.

What the hell am I thinking?

We’re in public. The dressing room blatantly shows to the entire store that there are two people in here. Tabloids would pay ridiculous fees even just for a picture of two pairs of our feet like this.

“Bad idea,” Briggs nods as he steps away from me.

“I-” I don’t know what to say. It’s not because of him. It’s just my life.

But then again, it’s also because of him. It’s a bad idea because of who we are, both him and me. And what I did last night.

“Those fit well,” he says loudly as he swings the fabric open.

I get dressed in my normal clothes and pile everything together to buy it all, even the hideous plaid shirt.

The car ride home is uncomfortably quiet.

Right as we’re about to round the road to turn off onto Rile Ranch, he takes a deep breath.

“I can’t do this again,” he says, sounding tired. I hate that it’s me that has deflated the happy, cheerful guy who was present only an hour ago.

“I’m sorry,” I say under my breath. There’s so much I should apologize for that I’m not even sure which thing I’m talking about when I say it.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he says. “I’m just letting you know that I can’t.”

We pull into Rile Ranch. Gram’s camper glints in the sun as we pass it, and it feels like it’s laughing at me. I hoped that I would come back here for some kind of closure, yet all I’m doing is messing things up in the exact same way.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Blaire

Rile Ranch without Kaylee turns out to be just plain awkward. At least with Kaylee here, there was someone who was happy to see me. But ever since the incident with Briggs, I’ve been avoiding the brothers as much as possible. And they seem more than happy to avoid me. I’m not sure what information they’ve shared among themselves, but enough to know that I haven’t grown up in the last five years I’ve been gone. I’m still the same girl who loses all brain functioning when a Rile brother gets close to me.

I’ve been keeping to myself a lot, besides sharing awkward meals with the brothers, continuing to help out around the ranch. I mostly text Kaylee and ask her about her chores, because I’d rather do that than be assigned them like some misbehaving schoolgirl from one of the guys. The rest of my time is spent working on the camper, exercising, or avoiding phone calls from essentially every person I know, but especially Patricia.

But now it’s the weekend again. And that means it’s time to try to track down my mystery mountain men. I’ve identified a few of their favorite hiking trails from the memory of our conversations, and even picked one out already for today. I burst into the kitchen, feeling a bit more light on my feet with a sense of purpose for the day.

The three brothers are gathered around the long oak table, and there’s a seat for me. It never stops surprising me to walk into the kitchen or the garden and notice that I’m still invited to join them. I expect the placemat and plate to be missing every time, thinking they’ve finally had enough of my company and our frequent awkward silences. But it’s always there.

“Morning boys,” I say as I slide into my seat. “Thanks for including me for breakfast.”

“You don’t have to thank us every day, Hollywood.” Colt says dryly, before he takes a sip of coffee.

“Well, I’m going to.” I shrug and smile politely.

I examine the layout in front of me. Briggs cooks almost every meal and I’ve come to realize he’s not just cooking for sustenance. The man cooks with love. He enjoys it and every meal is satisfying, albeit still laced with personal guilt. It’s not the kind of food I’m used to eating and I wonder how long I can get away with enjoying it before seeing it on my figure. At least Patricia isn’t here to point it out.

“Goat cheese omelette,” Briggs points to a steel pan as he describes what he made like he does every morning. “Local turkey sausage. Fruit salad.”

“Thanks, Briggs.” I nod. “It looks amazing, as always.”

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