Page 67 of Boomer
Tomorrow washers.Her family’s. Ansel’s. She wasn’t going to let anyone take that from her. Not after her mother’s call telling Taylor that Ansel wouldn’t come out of his room.
He needs me.Maybe… maybe she needed him, too.
She was in luck, the session went very late, and she was tired, but she wasn’t missing this lunch with her parents. The next day she’d stopped by the house first.Okay…she’d goneall out. Dress. Makeup. Curls. A spritz of her favorite perfume with just enough to tease, never overwhelm.
She wasn’t sure who she was trying to impress more, her mother, or the man currently undoing her in every way a woman could be undone.
When she pulled up at the compound, Boomer was already waiting near the front gate.
When he saw her? Heexhaled. “Dang, woman. You look fucking beautiful.” His voice dropped, rough and low. “You’re trying to kill this poor ole Southern boy.”
She grinned, heart thudding, and stepped closer, reaching up to cup his jaw. “I just wanted you to see me in something other than tactical gear.”
Her gaze roamed over him andsweet God. He was a sin in denim, and she wanted to sin over and over again. Jeans that fit like they were tailored to worship his ass and thighs. A simple black T-shirt tucked in, sleeves hugging his biceps, boots scuffed and perfect. He smelled like Boomer, clean, sharp,masculine.Like heat and leather and everything she wanted between her thighs.
Suddenly her stomach twisted. She clenched the wheel tighter than necessary as they pulled out of the lot. Boomer noticed immediately. “What?” he asked, glancing at her.
She stared straight ahead. “I don’t know what I was thinking. My mom is a nightmare. She’s going to?—”
He reached over and gently pressed two fingers to her lips. “I can handle shotgun-toting daddies and meemaws with cast-iron skillets,” he drawled. “I can handle your mother.”
Gotthelp her, he made herbelievehe could. The butterflies didn’t go away, not even after she pulled into the drive and rang the bell. The house looked warm from the outside, sunlight in the windows, a vase of fresh tulips on the porch table, but inside? The dragon stirred.
Gretchen Hoffman opened the door. International human rights attorney. Blunt force intellect. Steel-core spine. Her mother didn’tsmile; sheassessed.
Taylor offered a too-bright smile. Her mother looked her over with a glance sharp enough to draw blood, then turned her eyes on Boomer. A single, precise once-over.
Then, in German, she said, “This is your doorkicker. He’s well built. Should keep you warm on cold nights. That’s all men are usually good for.”
Taylor stiffened. Her spine locked up. She turned toward Boomer, dread already crashing through her ribs. But his eyes…sparkled.“Mutter,” she managed, voice thin, a more formal word for mom. “Boomer speaks German.”
Gretchen didn’t even blink. “Does he?” she said in perfect English. “Aren’t you an enterprising individual?”
Boomer’s mouth tilted in a slow, dangerous smile. Then in flawless, low German, he said, “No, ma’am. I was raised with it as a second language. My mother is German.” Gretchen blinked. Taylor stared. Boomer, cool as a whiskey neat, extended his hand and added, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Frau Hoffman.”
Taylor opened her mouth to breathe. Or apologize. Possibly both. But Boomer wasn’t finished. His voice dipped with lazy precision, just this side of polite. “I’m good at more than just heating Taylor’s bed.”
Silence.
Gretchen blinked.
Taylor choked. “Carter?—”
He turned to her with that devastating smirk. “What? I’m just being honest.”
Taylor swore under her breath and covered her face with her hand.
Her mother stepped aside, lips tight but clearly intrigued. “Well then. I suppose we’ll see what else you’re good at…besides German and bedding my daughter.”
Boomer grinned wider.
“Yes, ma’am. I’d be happy to demonstrate.”
Taylor prayed for the floor to open and swallow her whole.
11
Boomer wandereddown the narrow hall, past the quiet hum of ceiling fans and the soft murmur of wind pushing against the old windows. The weathered boards creaked under his boots, the kind of sound that echoed nostalgia more than wear. The scent of something citrusy and expensive drifted from the kitchen, probably the soap her mother used, crisp and efficient and judgmental.
