by Laura Wright
“I believe someone’s got the hots for someone,” Mac said behind her.
Sheridan whirled around and overreacted. “I do not have the hots for him!”
It was an overreaction that Mac, to her credit, took in stride. She gave Sheridan an understanding smile. “I actually meant James. But come to think of it, you’re looking pretty blushy too.”
“Blushy?” Sheridan repeated, her hands going to her face.
“I know it doesn’t sound like a real word. But it is. My friend Cass used to say it about me. Whenever I was around her brother.” She grinned. “Still applies. Just sayin’.”
“It’s a warm night,” Sheridan pointed out, even though the sun hadn’t really even set yet.
Mac nodded. “And it was a hot day.”
“Yes, exactly,” Sheridan agreed, then realized where the woman was headed—or hell, where she’d landed—and started laughing. “Oh my God, I know. But I don’t want to talk about it. I can’t. In fact, I’m hoping it goes away. All things blushy.” She sounded like a moron, and yet she asked, “You know?”
Mac nodded sagely. “I understand. But if you do ever want to talk about it. Say, if the blushy continues or . . . worsens—”
“Oh my God.”
“I’m around.”
Sheridan heaved a sigh. “I appreciate that.” And she did. Though she knew she could never take Mackenzie up on the offer. Not if she wanted to continue to work at the Cavanaugh Group. Lord, just the thought of Deacon seeing her like this—hearing her all flustered and . . . female . . .
She blinked and forced her face into a mask of composure. “Now, what’s got you rushing over here?”
As if she had just then remembered why she’d made the trek out to Redemption Ranch, Mac blanched. “I need your help.”
It didn’t take the deduction skills of Sherlock Holmes to know what was wrong. “Wedding?”
Mac nodded. Where a moment ago, she’d been this strong, confident ranch forewoman who knew everything about love and romance and obscure words like blushy. Now she was reduced to a puddle of insecurity.
“Cake?” Sheridan asked.
“I picked the coconut.”
“Good choice.”
“What I need help with is so much bigger than cake.” She took off her hat and tossed it to the ground. “Dress.”
Sheridan suppressed a smile. But it wasn’t easy. The woman looked positively freaked out. “Okay, the first thing to do is not panic. Do you have any ideas? Magazines to look at? Is there a shop in town you could visit, or maybe you have an appointment in Dallas to see a designer?”
“Deacon hired someone to come here,” she said, her voice reed thin. “He knew I wouldn’t take the time out to go shopping for a dress, so he’s sending them to me.”
This fact looked to be the worst thing imaginable to Mac. “When?” Sheridan asked.
“Tomorrow.”
“That’s soon. And good.”
The bride-to-be grimaced. “I need to be moving cattle tomorrow.” At just the mention of her work, she leaned down, scooped up her hat, and placed it back on her head.
“You’re going to need to take a couple hours off,” Sheridan said. “Maybe around lunchtime?”
Soft puppy-dog eyes implored her. “Will you be there with me? Give me your honest opinion about what looks good and what looks like something a ballerina would wear?”
“I don’t know,” Sheridan began tentatively.
“Please.”
“I’m no expert in fashion.”
“Trust me, you’re a thousand times more stylish than I could ever hope to be.”
Sheridan hesitated. Mackenzie Byrd was her boss’s fiancée, and that fact should make her eager—or at least obligated—to help the woman out. But the friendlier she became with Mac, the more anxious she felt. Like she wasn’t just extending herself to her boss’s soon-to-be wife. She was starting to form a bond. A potential friendship.
Her eyes moved over the woman’s desperate expression. How did one say no to that? “Okay,” she said, caving. “Sure. What time?”
Mac burst out with a massive sigh of relief. “Oh, thank you, thank you. Lunch was a great idea. One o’clock work for you? At the Triple C. Up at the main house.”
“I’ll be there,” Sheridan assured her, then added for good measure, “Mac.”
The smile she received in return was brilliant and genuine and made her heart hurt a little. In all her years during school and then work, she never allowed herself to even contemplate what might be missing in her life. It wasn’t productive. She didn’t want the distraction . . . or the course in vulnerability. But ever since she’d been in River Black, things had changed. People were coming into her life, refusing to stay on the perimeter. And Sheridan wasn’t altogether sure anymore if she wanted them to.
Six
James had tried like hell to sleep. Done everything he could think of except take a bath. He’d heard they were soothing or something. But he didn’t do baths. Not even when he was a kid. He and Deac and Cole had all refused the hot-water-and-bubbles routine, opting instead for the cold, clear water of the creek. But riding out and jumping in wasn’t going to scrub a certain filly from his mind tonight.
Sheridan.
He couldn’t stop thinking about her. Worrying about her. If she was still at Redemption or if she’d gone back to her hotel. Sure, she was capable with what was under the hood of Deac’s truck, but what about driving it? Had she been able to handle that monster? Shit, could she even get it out of the garage?
As he drove down Redemption’s dusty drive, he knew he was about to find out. He also knew that coming here was a mistake. The kind he’d been pretty successful in steering clear of. For good reason. He was no woman’s protector. He’d come to terms with that long ago. And yet, as he climbed out of his truck, headed up the porch steps, and found the front door open, a rogue desire to find her and make sure she was okay barreled through him.
Except for one dimmed lamp in the entryway, the rest of the first floor was dark. What was she doing? Door open, lights off? Sure, this was the country and all, but that didn’t mean shit didn’t happen from time to time.
He hauled ass up the stairs, where harsh yellow light was blazing down the hall. His gut tight, he followed it all the way until he came to an open door.
Damn woman, he thought as leaned back against the doorframe of what was going to be Deacon’s office space. On the long metal desk, two computers, an iPad, and a laptop were on, though all were in sleep mode. Paperwork was spread in a fan shape on one side, while notebooks, pens, and coffee were littered on the other. And in the middle of it all? Sheridan, fast asleep.
James felt equal parts softness and pissed off. She’d fallen asleep in a remote house, door unlocked, all alone.
He pushed away from the door and walked into the room. She needed to get back to the hotel and rest, and he was going to make sure she got there.
“Sheridan?” he said in a soft voice. When she didn’t respond, he placed a hand on her back. “Sheridan? Honey, you need to wake up.”
She stirred, then made a sound that was almost a moan. Keeping his hand on her back, James watched her eyelids flutter and her lips purse. Damn, she was beautiful. Her auburn hair falling loose across her smooth, pale cheek.
“Sheridan,” he said again a little more forcefully.
This time her eyes opened. She blinked, then suddenly she focused on him. “Oh my God,” she squealed as she sat up. “You scared me to death.”
He backed up a foot. “I’m sorry.”
“James?” she asked as if her sleepy brain was still trying to wake up and make sense of her surroundings. She glanced around, no doubt reminding herself where she was and why. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s late, Sheridan.” Didn’t really answer her question,
but it was all he was giving her.
“What time is it?”
“One thirty.”
“In the morning?” she cried. She turned around and looked at the paperwork spread on the desk. “Oh my God.”
“You fell asleep in an unlocked house far from anything and anyone,” he scolded. “You think that’s good decision-making?”
She turned to look at him, her gray eyes wide and her hair wild around her face and shoulders. Was this how she looked in bed after sex? he wondered. Tousled and sexy, lips pink and plump?
“Maybe not,” she said.
“Most definitely not,” he corrected, his tone harsher than he meant it to be. “This is a small town, sure, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t bad people about.”
“I just got into something, and was reading . . . I—”
“That’s no excuse,” he cut in.
She turned back to face him with a look of bewilderment. “Okay, why are you getting so pissed? I didn’t do it on purpose. It was a mistake.”
Sometimes mistakes get people killed.
The words were right there on this tongue. He knew they’d come out sounding bitter and angry and uncompromising, and he wasn’t prepared to explain why. Just like he wasn’t prepared to go into detail about why he hadn’t been able to sleep, why he’d driven all the way out to Redemption to check on her. She knew he liked her, and that was excuse enough.
“You should head home,” he said, tamping down his ferocity. “Find your pillow instead of the top of a desk.”
Still confused, she stood up, stretched her back a little. “I will.”
He tried not to stare at the way her breasts and tight, round backside pushed out with the effort. “Listen, Sheridan, you driving that monster truck back to the hotel doesn’t sit right with me. I’m going to take you myself.”
“James,” she began, but he interrupted her.
“That’s what friends do, right? Help each other out?”
Her cheeks stained a pretty pink as she stared at him, unsure.
He gestured toward the door. “Come on. Let’s get you home. Deacon would never forgive me if I left here without you.”
Of all the things he’d said since he’d gotten there, this one seemed to make sense to her, or at the very least gave her a plausible excuse to agree.
“All right,” she said, turning toward the desk. “Let me just get my stuff together.”
The ride back to town was a quiet one, windows down, air rushing into the cab. But James didn’t mind. He didn’t need chitchat. He was just glad she hadn’t fought him about taking her home. He was pretty sure that if she had—if she’d insisted on staying at Redemption to work—he would’ve camped out on the floor downstairs.
He glanced her way. She’d pulled her hair back into a loose knot at her neck, but a few pieces had managed to get free and were flapping around in the breeze. His fingers itched as they wrapped the steering wheel, curious to know how those strands would feel against his skin.
Christ, this was bad. He’d gone right past desire and interest to something far more worrisome. Something he hadn’t felt in years. Something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel. He liked Sheridan O’Neil. Wanted to get to know her better. See what made her tick, see her heart.
See her naked . . .
When they pulled up in front of the hotel, Sheridan didn’t wait for him to come around and open her door. She seemed bone tired as she gave him a quick thank-you, then got out and started for the front door of River Black’s modest hotel. Maybe he should’ve, but James didn’t give it a second thought when he parked the truck illegally and followed her. Or when he came up beside her and placed a hand protectively on her lower back.
Sheridan didn’t protest, didn’t say a word. At least, not until they were on the second floor, at her door and she had her key in the lock. Then all of a sudden she sighed heavily, yanked the key back, and turned around to face him.
“Okay,” she said, letting her head fall back against the wood. “What’s going on?”
He shrugged. “Just walking you to your door.”
“Simple as that, huh?”
“What? You don’t have gentlemen in the big city, Sheridan?”
Her gray eyes narrowed. Not in anger, but in frustration. “Why did you come out to Redemption in the middle of the night? That goes way beyond gentleman—”
“I told you we’re friends.”
“We both know this isn’t a friendship. Not in the traditional sense of the word anyway.” She took a deep breath. “I’m not good at pretending, James. I’m normally a very straight shooter. I tell it like it is. And I don’t get involved with anything that’s a lie or a charade. But because you’re Deacon’s brother, and because I’m Deacon’s assistant, and”—she chewed her lip—“because I’m obviously attracted and captivated by you, I allowed myself to play along with the friendship game.” She lifted her chin and stated resolutely, “But I can’t keep doing that. And I’m asking you to stop as well.”
There were very few times in James’s life when he’d felt rattled, like his insides weren’t connected anymore, like they wanted to escape the bonds of his skin. But as he gazed down into the beautiful, weary, impassioned face of Sheridan O’Neil, he felt completely and totally unhinged.
“Stop pretending this is a friendship?” he said through gritted teeth. “Or stop pretending I’m not attracted to you?”
“Both,” she whispered.
“Or stop pretending that every time I see you I want to kiss you.”
She looked down both sides of the hallway, then back again. “That would probably be good too.”
He leaned in, placed his palms on the wood, one on either side of her head. “Well, then, if I do that, I’m going to need to stop pretending that your smart, sexy, passionate ways . . .” He dropped his head and cursed, then lifted his eyes to hers once again. “Don’t make me yearn and think, make me wonder, make me crazy with a need I didn’t even know existed inside me anymore.”
Her lips parted, and she stared up at him with huge, stunned eyes. “James, don’t do this,” she begged, breathing heavily.
Hell, woman, he thought. I wish I could stop it. Stop myself. Stop running my mouth. Stop wanting yours. “And that when I’m looking into your eyes or sitting next to you in my truck or hearing your voice, I’m wishing you were mine.”
He was a fool. He knew that. People didn’t say shit like that after knowing someone for only a few weeks. And he should never be saying it. But being this close, staring down into those beautiful, sexy eyes, he couldn’t seem to hold on to his usual brand of resistance. The past felt far away, not weighing heavily on his shoulders.
He couldn’t resist. Her, himself. It was the middle of the night, and maybe his madness wouldn’t count tomorrow.
He dropped his head and brushed his lips over hers. Just once. Easy and slow so he could get a taste of her. But one taste was all it took to ignite the need that had been building inside him ever since he’d found her on the rain-soaked road outside the Triple C. It was like pouring gasoline on a lit match. And he wasn’t the only one feeling it. As his mouth captured hers, Sheridan groaned and slipped her arms around his neck. It was all the encouragement he needed, and he kissed her hungrily. She was so warm, her lips so soft. What the hell was he going to do when it was over? When this incredible taste, this moment, was taken from him? Would he be able to just go on, to pretend like it hadn’t happened—that he didn’t continue to want her in this almost desperate way?
His hands went to her hips, and his thumbs pushed through the loops on the waistband of her jeans. He tugged her to him with a grunt of male possessiveness, then growled as he felt how perfectly she fit against him. Her belly against his fly, her thigh between his legs, her breasts locked tight to his ribs.
She tasted like night, like waking up and
finding your woman burrowed deep into your chest—like the promise of warm sex under cool sheets. For several amazing, wonderfully drugged moments, all there was—the only sounds that could be heard in that hallway at two a.m.—were hungry, frustrated, needful groans and sighs as James continued to kiss her, tug her closer, bite at her lower lip, then lap at the indentation with his tongue.
But then it ended. As perfect moments—mindless moments—do. Sheridan’s arms dropped from his neck and she pulled away.
James’s body instantly protested. “What is it, honey?” he inquired softly.
She wasn’t looking at him as she shook her head almost imperceptibly.
“Hey.” He cupped her chin gently, lifted it so their eyes met. “Remember what you said. Straight shooter. Always telling it like it is.”
She blinked, slowly, sadly.
“Tell me,” he coaxed.
Her eyes searched his; then she seemed to deflate. “I’m scared.”
It was the last thing James had expected her to say, and the worst thing she could’ve said to him. He released her instantly and stepped back, his gut tight and his heart slamming against his ribs.
Sheridan sagged against the door, breathing heavily, her nipples pressing tight against her tank top, her lips a deep pink and swollen from his kiss.
Scared.
Christ. His brows knit together, and nausea rose up to claim him. The last thing he ever, ever, wanted was for a woman to feel scared around him.
Shoving a hand through his hair, he tried to get the words out. “I’m sorry. Shit. I’m real sorry, Sheridan.”
“It’s okay.”
“No,” he said with blatant and quick ferocity. “It’s not. Ever. You’re right. I’m an ass, and this is a mistake. I’m so sorry I pushed you.” He gave her a quick nod, then turned to head down the hall. “It won’t happen again,” he growled.
“James, wait,” she called after him. “Please, I didn’t mean . . .”
But he was already through the door to the stairwell and on his way down to the lobby, to his truck—to his way back home. Or at least to where he was hanging his hat until he could get his stupid ass out of River Black for good.