“Spinning from those leggings you’ve got on.” I snicker at myself, because—fuck me—I didn’t mean to say that.
June gives me a withering glare. “Why don’t you spin it back to California?”
“I’m not leaving yet.”
“What are you waiting for?” She lifts the saddle off, so I can only see her head and shoulders for a moment.
“Those two tiny humans.”
“You’ll be waiting for a long damn time.” I hear the creak of leather as she sets the saddle down. Then she straightens up and tosses me a brush so fast I barely catch it. “You can finish up with him and brush him down after you do.”
My gaze clings to her as she saunters out of the stall. “Can this count for a sorry?” I ask.
“Not so much. But it’ll pay your ticket to keep loitering around my farm.”
I throw my head back on a low laugh and pay the price in pain that splinters through my skull. I grin so she won’t notice. “Count your money, darlin’. I’ll see you in just a little bit.”
When I hear the barn door creak shut, I push my stiff dick down in my jeans and laugh. I’ve been playing this all wrong. June Bug is no country bumpkin spinster aunt. She’s beautiful. Demanding. And discriminating. What I need to do is win her over.Chapter 7JuneHe thinks he’s funny. Charming. Slick. I bet Burke Masterson is a real lady magnet where he comes from—what with his big pile of money and the fancy cars and schmancy house I’m sure he’s living in. No doubt those high-rolling California women love it.
I am not impressed.
I’ll admit, I was surprised to find that he can manage my show course. He looked sexy as sin sailing over my rails, every muscle in his big, hard body moving with Hot Rocket’s. Then Hottie threw a shoe—something I don’t even think Burke realized—and the devil took a tumble.
Okay, being honest, I was even just a little bit impressed with that because of how he tucked and rolled. He still ate dirt, due to the angle of it, but it was an elegant sort of fall—a fall that just screams “I’m athletic.”
Then that way he jumped up and tried to play it off? I have to give him credit, he was thinking of the kids, or seemed like he was. But he’s a showboat. Clearly. All that arrogance he’s shown me since he got here…
Just like almost every man I’ve ever known—except my Daddy. Mama got a good one in him, and look what happened to him since she passed? He’s been damn near crazy, even if he never owns up to it.
So anyway, I know there’s good ones, but who needs an arrogant son of a bitch? I don’t know who, but it’s not me. I don’t have time for that stuff, or the energy. I did that once before—tried to be somebody’s moon and sun and stars—and let’s just say that everybody in the county still remembers how that ended.
I bet he’s no different than Lambert was. Probably always wanting everyone to tell him how amazing he is. Mr. Startup…Mr. Richy Rich Guy. Grew up with a silver spoon. That’s what I read on Google. More important than all that is what he said to me about the college degree.
Goading me about not finishing high school? That’s a douchebag move. I don’t make exceptions for a man under duress. I just lost my sister, same as he lost Asher. You don’t see me acting like a dick. Okay…well, maybe at times I’ve been a little bit prickly, but he earned it. Even riding to the jump course when I asked him not to—that’s a dick move.
I do hope his head’s okay. Would be a shame to ruin something so pretty. But that’s crazy talk. I laugh at myself as I pull the porch door open.
I find the kids in the kitchen, having taken the pups out, returned them to the laundry room, and served themselves popsicles.
“Making yourselves right at home the way I want you to.” I kiss Oliver’s head. “What do you think of those?” I ask, nodding at the Fla-Vor-Ice tubes in their hands.
“They’re popsicles in a plastic bag,” Margot says.
“Well that’s true. All popsicles kind of are, though, aren’t they?”
“Not if we make our own at home,” she says, taking a bite of her blue popsicle. “That’s better for nature.”
“Oh, like the environment?”
She nods, and so does Oliver.
“Okay, well, let’s do some of those then. I can buy the plastic molding for them next time we go to the Piggly Wiggly.”
I get a popsicle for myself and peek out the curtain covering the door that leads onto the screened porch. No Burke in sight, so it’s safe to ask them, “What do you think about your uncle showing up?”