Page 74 of Unguarded

“There’s an outdoor shower on the side of the bunkhouse if you want to rinse off your shoes!” Dolly calls back.

“Perfect! Feel better, Rosie!” I call out.

I start making my way toward the bunkhouse quickly, trying to ignore the unpleasant, wet feeling around my ankles. I barely notice Oyster following me.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. You can do this. Don’t be a baby.

I’m staring at the dirt and trying to talk myself out of regurgitating my breakfast as I round the exterior corner ofthe bunkhouse. I’m too distracted to notice the sound of running water as my body collides with the wet, warm skin of a solid wall of muscle.

I shriek, looking up in shock to see male pecs. My hands reach out to steady myself, but the only thing I can grab is him. My fingertips scrape against his lower arms, squeezing the bulging muscles obscenely.

“I’m sorry!” I scream.

His hands reach around to steady me, but my gut reaction is to fight back. I swat at him, resisting his efforts to. Oyster’s barking joins the chaos as she nips at our heels, causing me to lose my balance. I feel myself falling forward.

“Oyster, dammit! Stop it!” Cash’s voice is raised, which only seems to upset the pup more, as the barking and nipping continues.

We crash down together, me falling on top of him. Oyster whines but immediately scutters away, narrowly missing getting crushed by Cash’s big body.

I screech again, panicking and struggling to scramble off his wet, muscular frame. He feels like heaven underneath me. The urge to memorize every shape of his arms, thighs, and chest muscles overwhelms me and makes my head feel cloudy.

“Calm down,” he says, his deep voice reverberating through me.

His voice and the firm grip of his hands on my arms immediately bring a sense of calm over me. The rushing water of the shower, still spraying over us, makes me slowly relax and go still. I finally open my eyes, not even realizing I squeezed them shut as soon as I made contact with his body.

He’s staring at me, shirtless and lying on the ground. He’s soaking wet. My eyes widen for a brief moment until I register that he is wearing boxer briefs on his lower half and he’s not completely naked.

“I didn’t see you.”

“I gathered that.”

“Why are you showering outside?” I’m panting.

My sports bra and leggings are soaked, as well as my hoodie, tied around my waist due to the sweat that gathered on my skin during the uphill portion of our walk. My breasts are spilling out onto his chest.

“Didn’t want to track mud inside.” His voice sounds a little strained, like our proximity is too much for him. One of his hands is still braced on my waist.

An obvious bulge is beginning to harden beneath me, right around my lower stomach. My jaw slacks open when I realize what it is.

“Rosie threw up on my feet,” I rush to explain.

He nods, like he didn’t even think about why I was over here. Neither of us moves for a few long seconds.

The bunkhouse’s outdoor shower is cleverly designed so that the house blocks it from the main view of the big house, and a patch of oak trees mostly shields it from the cow pasture to the left. A privacy fence makes up the back side, so we’resort ofin what feels like our own private world. The only real danger is the long driveway leading to the main house, which has a clear view of us.

We stare at each other, both of our breathing finally evening out. His fingers slowly begin to trail up my side,sending little bursts of electricity over the surface of my heated skin.

“Then, let’s get you cleaned up,” he finally says.

I nod, not trusting my voice to sound even.

He effortlessly supports us both as he sits up, his hand still around my waist. He cups my elbows and helps me stand. The water is warm, spraying between us. He reaches up to grab the showerhead, removing it from its base. His skin is glistening and wet, the tattooed, tanned muscles looking like they’re straight out of a Nike ad.

He bends down and uses the sprayer to rinse off my calf muscles and shoes. Then, his fingers wrap around my ankle, the firm grip making my eyes roll back in my head. A small gasp escapes my lips. He pulls on my tennis shoe, removing it before peeling off the wet sock. He repeats the process on the other foot.

His gentle care and consideration make my heart turn to mush. I’m not used to this—the attention to detail and concern for my well-being. Most of the people in my life view me as an asset, a moneymaker they can exploit. Even Fidel sees me that way.

If any of the men I dated in the past had been in his position, all would’ve either started taking off my bra or told me to meet them inside when I was finished cleaning up.

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