Chapter Eleven
Heather snorted. Was that a yes, she’d broken his heart?
“Doubtful. I think he was looking for a way out to be honest. Not like I’m good girlfriend material anyway, let alone wife material.”
Tyler forced a smile, but what the hell did she mean by that? And just the thought of her with another man caused an odd pinch in his chest. T.R. had called it. Jealousy. Which he had no business feeling. Whatever had happened between her fiancé and her was none of his business, just like Isabella was none of hers. Prying would lead to feelings, and right now, he was fine only feeling an adrenaline rush from her jumping in headfirst to spin donuts, which she sucked at.
He clenched his jaw. He should have told her no instead of pointing out the dirt track. He’d once caught Seth spinning donuts on the quad bike used for hauling tools between pastures, and Tyler’d had E.R. visits stampeding through his mind the whole time he’d grounded his rebel son. Uncle Travis, the orthopedic trauma surgeon, had messaged his nephew info about kids who’d died of spinal injuries fucking around on those things, and even that hadn’t scared Seth straight. It had only caused another argument to brew, and Seth had accused him of turning his cool uncles against him.
Still smiling, chest heaving, she glanced at him again, glanced to his lips. “Look, I’m not a trick driver, okay?”
“Jeezus, I’d feel better if you were. At least you’d know which end was up.”
“And I suppose you are,” she challenged.
“You need a lesson.” He jutted his chin.
She squared herself, facing him, her gaze dipping to his mouth again. His neck erupted in tingling under her perusal. “A lesson. And I suppose you, Mister Straight Laces, are gonna teach me?”
He grinned. Chewed his cheek. Eyed her. Was he? He nodded once. “Yes. Yes I am.” Before he could take it back, he unstrapped his belt and hopped out, jogging around the hood. He opened the driver door and unclipped her belt for her. “And by the way, Mister Straight Laces was my pops. What he didn’t know about me, didn’t hurt him.”
Still smiling, her eyes twinkled. “You’re serious?”
She turned sideways in the seat so her legs dangled out the door.
“As a heart attack,” he replied.
“You know what you’re doing?”
He pulled her thighs apart and wedged his hips between them, gripping them as he replied, because he didn’t know what the hell he was doing with her, but he liked whatever it was. “Baby, I cut my teeth on one of the biggest, richest cattle ranches in Texas with a fixer-upper truck, two younger brothers who had radar for getting into trouble, and a lot of unsupervised time. You bet your ass I know what I’m doing.”
She waggled her brows at him, and he couldn’t help the grin. Couldn’t help the impulse to press into her like he’d done on his counter. Couldn’t resist gripping her form-fitting, dusty jeans that were already doing a fine job of christening the dark leather seat with dirt, nor quell the unholy memories of her riding him against that door.
Her breath hitched, close to him, as he fit her thighs securely around his waist, as her hands combed into his scruff at his nape beneath the Stetson and tugged delightfully upon his roots, and dusted a kiss to her lips.
“Scoot yer cheeks,” he murmured against her lips, his own curling up. “Let a guy show you how it’s done.”
“Oh my God, misogynist much?” She shoved him backward as easily as she’d raked her fingers around his neck.
“Thought that’d get a rise outta you.” A laugh—not a chuckle—rumbled up his throat unchecked.
Her eyes widened in wonder at the sound. “You can laugh.”
He muscled in for another kiss, pleased when she reeled him back by his shirt with a laugh of her own that she’d figured out he was teasing. Thad wasn’t wrong; he was grinning a lot around her.
She straddled the console, climbing over the seat, her butterfly wings and fine ass on full display, giving him an appreciated view. He pulsed to life down south below the belt buckle. Couldn’t help it. Felt those pulls of need, tightening, tingling throbs that threatened to stand him in salute with the need to let go, to connect, to work her out of his system, even though the more time he spent around her felt like she was stuck in his system like a virus.
He shoved up the runner board and dropped his broad frame onto the seat, crunching in like a clown trying to fit into a car, and knocking his Stetson off in the process, both of them laughing. He adjusted the seat, finally fitting into the space, and strapped his belt on, eying her.
Double take.
His Stetson sat atop her head, covering the loose tendrils hanging down her back and tangled over her shoulder. She flashed him a seductive upturn of the lips. Hot damn. Something in his chest tightened. Something he hadn’t felt before and couldn’t identify. Isabella would have never put that sweaty, dirty, years-old thing on her head—and why had he compared her to Isabella more than once, when he never compared his other hookups to her? Still, something primal welled within him like it had at the honky tonk: there was something that hearkened, something so satisfying about seeing her in his hat, like when he’d watched her sleeping in his sheets, like he’d staked some sort of claim on this free spirit.
Mine.
So much for no attachments. He put the truck in rear-wheel drive. Thrust it in low. “Buckle up, sweetheart.”
Grinned.