“It’s not you I’m worried about,” Brody mutters under his breath.
“I heard that,” I sing as he walks away.
Brody follows after Travis and I watch them get into the squad car and drive away.
Now, to find out where the nearest boot store is. I open my phone’s browser, surprised to have service in the middle of nowhere. The internet is slow and the service isn’t that great, but it’s better than nothing. Typing in “boots” and “Dayton”, I hit send and four different stores pop up, all within a five-mile radius. The town doesn’t have a Starbucks when there’s one on nearly every corner in America, but they have four stores that sell cowboy boots. I roll my eyes. Priorities, people. Picking the nearest one, I type it into the navigation app.
After three different stores, I finally find a pair I kinda like. The woman who owns the store takes me on a tour of all the boots and finally shows me the most popular ones. I choose a basic boot with different color leather and stitching, and it sets me back almost two-hundred dollars. I almost have a coronary when she rings up the total. I’m used to spending money on shoes—high quality, designer, sexy-as-sin shoes—but two-hundred bucks on boots for some redneck dancing?
I hand over the cash, feeling the hit of every individual dollar, and leave with a forced smile on my face. These boots better be worth it.
NOISE OUTSIDE MY room wakes me and I look at my watch, squinting to see the time. After I sold my soul for mediocre leather boots, I grabbed a quick lunch at Dairy Queen to see what indeed made it the queen of dairy and dropped Brody’s truck off at the station with the sergeant since he was on patrol or something. When I finally got back to the motel, I threw myself onto the bed, exhausted from the day, and napped. Now . . . shit. It’s almost seven-thirty. Jumping off the bed, I rush into the bathroom to get ready.
Freshly showered, I throw on a pair of skinny jeans and a floral cutout shoulder peasant top that complements my new boots. As I’m finishing my makeup, there’s a light tap on the door. I drop my mascara into my bag and pop my lips before walking around the bend to open the door. My eyes are immediately drawn to the muscular chest standing in front of me.
Brody is smoking hot and could never be mistaken for a city boy. My eyes drift down his taut stomach to his snug light blue denim jeans, stopping to stare at his package. Brody clears his throat, snapping me to attention. Looking up into those amazing chestnut brown eyes, I barely notice he’s wearing a cowboy hat. Tilting his head, his lips twitch up into a smile. “Can I help you with somethin’, darlin’?” he asks, leaning on the doorjamb.
“No,” I say with more force than intended. Turning away, I move back into the bedroom to grab my purse.
“You sure you didn’t see somethin’ you like?” he continues, trying to goad me.
“I’m sure.”
As I come around the corner from my room, he comments, “Well, you look damn fine.” Rolling my eyes, I take a deep breath. I have a feeling this is going to be an interesting evening. I glance over to see he caught my eye roll. Raising a brow, he calls me out. He’s still leaning against the frame, a huge smile plastered across his face. Shit. “You ready?” I ask as I turn back toward the door.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, tipping his hat. Fuck, he looks amazing. I clear my throat and shove past him.
“Where are we going?” I ask as he shuts the door and falls in step beside me.
“We’re going to have some fun.”
Forty-five minutes later, somewhere along the outskirts of Houston, Brody pulls into a parking lot. Music pours from the large building and swarms of people crowd the front entrance. Even as Brody navigates the parking lot, bringing us farther away from the entrance, the volume of the music barely lessens.
Pulling into a spot and throwing the truck in park, Brody murmurs, “Don’t worry, I know the bouncer.” I nod, my eyes skirting to his for a moment before I open the door and exit the truck. We squeeze past the anxious crowd, their hoots and hollers pulling my attention as they laugh and joke around—a completely different atmosphere from the normal club crowds in Manhattan. But there’s got to be something said about being with someone who can get us in without waiting, even in Texas.
“Hey, Dale,” Brody says, waving to a large man in a black shirt standing a few feet in front of us. Dale nods his head and moves out of the way, letting us pass. Complaints come from behind us and Dale tells them to fuck off. I smile; it almost feels like home. Another bouncer opens the door, and we’re in.
Brody escorts me across the wood worn floor and around a raised dance stage. As we walk, I glance up at the stag horn chandelier overhead. Brody directs me toward an outdated bar and a pretty, voluptuous blonde comes over as soon as we sit.
“What can I get y’all?” Behind the bartender are old rustic wood walls covered in photos of cowboys. Ugh.
Brody orders a bucket of some kind of beer and I scrunch my nose in distaste. I don’t drink beer. In fact, I hate beer. I don’t think I’d drink anything served here, but I don’t want to be too prissy or come off as some sort of spoiled city girl. Although, this is the anti-Christ of clubs. In New York, I wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this.
“Can you ask what kind of vodka they have?” I whisper-shout to Brody as I move in closer to him. He doesn’t respond and I look over to find him staring at the bartender’s tits as they sway in front of him. Pushing her arms together, she leans more forward and I scoff.
“What?” he yells back, still mesmerized by Bouncing Betty’s impressive rack. I twist my lips to the side, unimpressed as I give him a deadpan expression.
“Vodka. What kind of vodka!” I say, shoving him. Ass.
His eyes snap to mine as he sits up straight. “Oh. I don’t know. I’ll ask.” I roll my eyes and tap my fingers on the bar.
“Sherry, what kind of vodka ya got?” As she’s rattling off names, I catch one I’m familiar with.
“Grey Goose. I’ll take a Grey Goose cosmopolitan.”
“Sorry, sugah. We don’t have those kind of glasses,” she says, waving out into the crowd. “Boys get too rowdy.” That would explain the beer being served in cans and not bottles.
“Um . . . okay. How about a Grey Goose and cranberry with a lime?” Nodding, she proceeds to make my drink and I glance around at the women in short denim shorts and tall wedges prancing on the outskirts of the dance floor while men wearing cowboy hats and jeans with wide belt buckles ogle them.
Sherry passes my drink to Brody, who then slides the plastic cup across the bar, placing it directly in front of me. “Here ya go, princess,” he shouts over the music.
“I’m not a princess,” I protest, picking up my drink.
“Whatever you say, princess,” he mutters before turning to watch the crowd. I let his words roll off my back as I sip my drink and move my attention back to the room.
The music picks up and people flock from all ends of the bar, forming lines on the dance floor. As the southern twang of a guy starts crooning, they all move in unison, tapping and clapping along with the song. “So, this is line dancing,” I mutter to myself, vaguely remembering going to a wedding and doing something similar to a song called The Electric Slide.
“Doesn’t it look like fun?” Brody asks, tapping his fingers on the bar.
Turning to face him, I shake my head. “I can’t do that,” I say, pointing to the group of guys who are practically professionals. They move in unison to the music, spinning and kicking to the beat.
“Sure you can. Everyone can line dance,” he says, chuckling. “This is a more advanced song, but I’m sure I can talk the DJ into somethin’ a little less fancy. But, first . . .” he says, before running onto the dance floor. Squeezing himself in between two scantily dressed girls, he joins in and I stare in disbelief. While he does his fancy footwork, he doesn’t take his eyes off me until he turns to face the other direction. Once he spins back, his eyes find mine again. Smiling, I watch him shimmy his hips and smack his ass. When he sw
ings his legs up high and kicks his heels out, my whole body flushes. Grabbing his belt buckle, he does some crazy footwork and I almost slide off the barstool.
After the song ends, Brody yells, “Lani, get ready!” Before I can protest, he walks toward the DJ booth. Slamming back my drink, I signal Sherry for another. I can’t go out there sober.
I watch him speak to the DJ and they both look back at me. Smiling, the DJ nods and puts his headphones back on. Walking back out onto the dance floor, Brody crooks his finger at me and I laugh, shaking my head no. He raises a brow, repeating the gesture, and I hesitate. It kind of looks like fun, but good lord, I’m going to embarrass myself. Tilting his head to the side, Brody flashes those amazing eyes, and he’s got me. Acquiescing, I slam down the drink Sherry just handed me and saunter my out to him.
“We’ll take this real slow,” he says, spinning me so I’m behind him. “Watch my feet,” he says over his shoulder as the music starts. The beat to this song is a little slower than the last and his footwork isn’t as fancy. The dance is mostly foot tapping and some sliding with hip sway. I watch him and after a couple passes, try it out. Glancing over his shoulder, he peeks at what I’m doing and laughs as I step left instead of right, crashing into the person next to me. Shaking his head, he switches positions, pulling me in front of him. He says the steps aloud before I’m supposed to do them, his hands on my hips to direct me.
Brody’s warm breath tickles the back of my neck as I swivel my hips. We slide together and he places his hand on my waist as we move. My body heats at his touch, feeling tingly in all the right places. My pulse races and I bite my lip, refusing to let him see me worked up from his proximity. It will only make dealing with him much worse and I refuse to get involved with a country boy.
Each time I finish the steps and start to slide, he’s right behind me. The hard planes of his body press against mine, so in tune with my movements, and I visibly shiver. It feels so natural, but there’s no way I can get tangled up with Brody.
When the song ends, he escorts me off the floor to the bar. Smiling, he asks, “Well, what’d ya think?”
“It was okay, I guess,” I say, trying to hold back a smile. Brody raises a brow, seeing right through me. “It was fun, okay? I had fun.”
Brody chuckles. His smile is contagious. “That’s what I thought.”
I smile back at him. Maybe this country thing isn’t so bad. I laugh at my own thoughts. No, it’s still awful.
I WAKE THE next morning to a knock on my door. “Go away,” I shout to whoever’s on the other side, my head refusing to leave the pillow. Another nightmare kept me up most of the night and I don’t want to leave the comfort of this bed.
“Rise and shine, darlin’,” a familiar voice booms from the hallway. Jesus fucking Christ, does he ever sleep?
“Go. Away,” I repeat, louder.
“Nope. You’ll let me in eventually.” I visualize him smiling through the door. Cocky prick.
“Fine,” I say as I swing my legs off the bed. Stomping my feet, I walk to the door, throw it open, and stomp back to my bed. Diving back onto the mattress, I bury my head under my pillow and pretend I don’t feel the bed dip next to me.
“I’m not goin’ away,” Brody says, chuckling.
“What do you want?” I moan into the pillow.
“Paint.”
“What?” I ask, peeking an eye out.
Brody’s smile widens. “Paint.”
Swinging the pillow toward his voice, I jump up to a sitting position. “What are you talking about?” I snap, losing whatever patience I have left.
“Travis told me last night the landlord gave the okay for you to paint the apartment,” he says, sprawling across the foot of the bed.
“Wait, what?” I ask, finally comprehending what Brody’s telling me. “Really?” I smile big, all the different color combinations running through my head.
“There are stipulations,” he says, lifting a brow, and my smile dies to a pursing of the lips.
“Way to be a buzzkill,” I moan, rolling so we’re looking face to face.
“Nothin’ too bright or too dark. Also, nothin’ crazy, like purple or pink,” he chuckles.
“Jesus, how old does he think I am, ten?”
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” he says, putting his hands up in defense.
“Fine, no teenage colors. Anything else?” I ask, sitting up.
“Nope, that’s it.” He watches me stretch, but continues to lay across the bed.
“And you needed to come tell me this at . . .” I grab my phone off the nightstand and glance at the time, “eight-thirty in the morning?”
“Yup,” he says, grinning. “It’s Tuesday. Your bed arrives Thursday. Figured you’d want to get it done ASAP.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s true,” I murmur.
“I’m off today. I thought we’d go pick out some paint colors and—”
“We?” I interrupt, lifting a brow.
“C’mon now, darlin’. You know you want my help,” he says, sitting up on the bed.
“You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a wink.
“Ugh, fine. Give me a minute to get dressed,” I say as I scoot off the bed.
Rummaging through the dresser, I pull out a pair of shorts and a tank top and walk into the bathroom. I change quickly, pull my hair back into a ponytail, brush my teeth, apply some light mascara and lip gloss, and walk back into the bedroom, feeling more presentable. Brody is leaning on the doorjamb, tapping his foot. “What, that wasn’t quick enough for you?”
“No.”
“You’re very bossy,” I say, brushing against him as I open the door.
Lightly grabbing my chin, he looks directly into my eyes. Without wavering, he answers, “Yes, I am.”
WE SPEND ALMOST an hour in the local Wal-Mart, which is a quick fifteen-minute drive. I’ve never stepped foot inside a Wal-Mart before today and to say it was an interesting experience would be an understatement.
He leads me down aisle after aisle and I find myself fascinated from the sheer size of the store. However, I see brands I’ve never ever heard of before and the clientele just boggles my mind. I wouldn’t be caught dead sleeping in what most of these shoppers wear out in public. My eyes hurt from the dozens of fashion faux pas I’ve witnessed.
Five gallons of paint, rollers, and other accessories I need later, we head back to the truck. Brody helps me carry everything into the apartment and whatever excitement I felt while picking out colors deflates as my shoulders slump. I forgot how bad the space really is.
Placing the paint on the floor, Brody says, “It’s a good thing I brought a change of clothes.”
“For what?” I ask, placing the bag of brushes next to the paint.
“To help you, of course,” he smiles. I narrow my eyes and shake my head. “See, help,” he chuckles, pointing to the brushes.
“No,” I say, my tone firm, since he doesn’t know what a headshake means.
“What do you mean ‘no’?” he asks, offended.
“You’ll just be a distraction. I’ll be fine by myself.” Turning away, I look at the colors, trying to decide which would fit which room.
“You do know you need to wash the walls first, right?” he asks. I turn toward him and he raises a brow.
“Why would I need to wash the walls? You just put the paint in the tray and . . . paint.” He bursts out laughing. “Stop laughing at me,” I growl, offended.
“I can’t help it. You’re adorable,” he says, still chuckling. “Have you ever painted before?”
“Well, no. Not exactly,” I admit, cringing.
“If the walls are dirty, which these clearly are, the paint won’t stick and it’ll eventually peel.” That explains the cleaning supplies he insisted on buying.
Unbuttoning his shirt, he lets it fall off his arms, then shoves it in the bag and grabs a ripped shirt out. I try to fight it, but my eyes are g
lued to his shirtless torso. The way his muscles flex when he moves enraptures me. Thank all that is holy his back is to me and he can’t see me drooling over him like a horny teenager. My tongue presses against my teeth as I continue to stare, my breathing becoming shallow. Once he places his painting shirt on, the spell is broken. Taking a deep breath, I shake my head and try to recover my senses. His naked body is permanently etched into my retinas and I don’t think I’ll be able to look at him the same again. Turning, he asks, “Ready to get started?”
“Yeah, sure. Walls,” I mutter as I walk toward the supplies. Without looking at him, I search the endless bags on the floor for the cleaner and paper towels. “I’ll start over there,” I say, pointing to the farthest place from him. Glancing his way, I see him smiling as he walks in the opposite direction. Damn, does he know?
I scrub the same spot on the wall, unable to get his naked body out of my mind. I’ve never been affected this way and I don’t know what to do about it. Turning, I watch as Brody sprays and wipes the walls, oblivious to what’s spinning around in my brain. The more time I spend with him, the more it becomes apparent he’s like catnip. All rational thought is gone when I look at him. And his amazing eyes could hypnotize me if I stared long enough.
What the hell is wrong with me? I don’t stumble over guys; they stumble over me. “How ya doin’ over there?” he asks, staring at me with a giant grin plastered across his face. Busted. “That spot looks real clean,” he teases.
“Just making sure. I don’t want the paint to peel,” I say, trying to hide my embarrassment. Heat flushes my cheeks and I turn my attention back to the task.
“Just a gentle wipe will do,” he says, a smile in his voice. I ignore him. The faster we do this, the faster he’ll be gone and I won’t have to worry about my thoughts.
I pour all the energy into cleaning the walls, and admittedly, they look better now, but will look a hundred times better once they’re painted.
I bought five different colors of paint, all neutral—bright enough to lighten up the place, dull enough to go with just about everything. I didn’t need primer since the walls were already white. Well, sort of white. Looking at each paint chip that came with the gallons, I try to determine where I want each color. “Aren’t they all the same color?” he asks.
When the Storm Ends Page 7