Page 10 of That Moment
I like it this way. It’s quiet and predictable.
Routine keeps a man steady. Feed the mares. Check the troughs. Walk the fence line with a thermos of coffee while the crisp air bites my lungs. It’s nothing fancy, nothing like the Slade Ranch, but it’s mine.
My dad used to say mornings made a man honest.“You can’t lie to yourself with frost in your beard and mud on your boots, Scotty. Ranch life will cut you loose quicker than you can say I quit.”
I still hear him sometimes, in the scrape of a shovel or the way the barn door sticks halfway. He’s been gone for years, but the ranch holds his memory.
My mind always drifts out here. I drag a hand down the warm flank of my favorite mare, Priscilla, and stupidly let myself think about Adrienne Slade.
She’s always been there. Hell, the whole town’s watched her grow up in heels too high for dirt roads and silk blouses that are somehow never wrinkled. She’s always known damn well who she was, and so has everyone else. Adrienne belongs in glass boardrooms with contracts and mergers. She sure as shit doesn’t belong side by side with a mechanic.
And yet, she lingers in my mind like all the fucking time.
Don’t be a fool, Scotty. She’s not for you. Never was.
Still, walking the fence now, I picture her hair catching the porch light. The way her mouth parted when I brushed at her curls. That small catch in her breath, she tried to hide when my thumb brushed against the soft skin of her lips.
I shake it off, shove the memory down where it belongs—with all the other almosts between me and Adrienne Slade.
The sun finally cracks the ridge, streaking gold across the frost. The mares start to whimper, tails swishing, and I lean against the fence, coffee steaming in my hand as I take in the small life I’ve built for myself here.
This life is steady. The garage, the ranch, a couple of horses who don’t care if I shower or shave. That’s enough. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
The shop is alreadyalive when the clock barely hits eight.
Air compressors hiss, wrenches clang, and the sharp bite of acetylene torches crackles at the far end. Radios hum two different country stations in competing corners of the garage, and somebody laughs too loudly at a joke.
Thirty guys depend on me to keep this circus moving, and I don’t let them down. Not if I can help it. I’m hunched over a Dodge with a transmission that doesn’t want to cooperate, torque wrench steady in my hands, when I hear the sweet pitch of her voice.
“Good morning, boys.”
The sound of her stilettos clicks against the concrete as she walks across the garage floor with a massive bakery box in her hand.
Fuck.
Suddenly, every guy in the shop remembers he’s a red-blooded man. Tools still, conversations cut. A socket wrench clatters to the floor.
And yet, she doesn’t hesitate. Adrienne Slade doesn’t hesitate for anyone. She heads straight for me, a cardboard coffee carrier balanced in one hand, the pastry box in the other as her designer bag sways against her hip.
“Morning,” she says, voice smooth like she knows damn well what she’s doing.
My pulse kicks, hard and fast. I wipe my hands on a rag. “Adrienne.”
“I brought you coffee.” She extends the cup toward me.
I take it, fingers brushing hers. Heat zips through me, too damn obvious. The coffee tastes too sweet, but I’d drink ten of them if it meant she kept looking at me like that.
Her perfume cuts through the usual mix of smells in this place. It’s floral and delicate and too damn tempting. She leans across the workbench to set down the pastry box, blouse dipping low enough that my eyes betray me. I catch myself staring before I can stop it.
The swell of her breast peeks over the bra, the lace detailing immediately sending a message to my cock that I’d like to tear it off of her with my teeth.
She notices. Of course, she notices.
“Eyes up here, Bescher,” she murmurs, her lips curling into a devious little grin.
Heat climbs the back of my neck, but I don’t look away. I can’t. “Maybe don’t bring distractions into my shop if you don’t want me looking.”
Her brows lift, daring. “That's supposed to be an excuse?”
