by Gigi Thorne
Jamming the hat on her head, she carefully extricated the pitcher of ginger tea from its protective pile, slapped a smile on her face, and mentally crossed all her fingers and toes.
“Time to face the music.”
* * *
Wyn finished taste testing the chili, added a last sprinkle of salt for good measure, and gave the thick, meaty concoction a thorough stir. He could survive on nothing but containers of frozen homemade chili if he had to. His mom had insisted that he and his dumbass kid brother knew how to cook. To her chagrin, Burke’s idea of cooking involved a microwave and disposable everything – dishes, utensils, napkins. Was it arrogance mixed with first kid syndrome that made Wyn a master in the kitchen? Ha! Probably.
“That dumbfuck brother of mine can’t spell cumin, much less figure out how to grind it fresh.”
He sniggered at the mental picture. When it came to younger siblings, he hit the jackpot. Burke was his junior and would be twenty-seven on his next birthday in November. Wyn liked to pretend that he’d have preferred to be an only child, but the fierce love for the little bro who did nothing but make him nuts was strong and ran deep.
But loving the little twerp didn’t mean Burke wasn’t a grade A asshole where the ladies were concerned. From the time he figured out what his dick was for, the kid had been on a commando mission to fuck every available female in Wyoming and even on a couple of memorable occasions when they let him off the family leash and he left the state.
There was the business trip to Las Vegas. The one that ended with bail money and Wyn threatening to tear Burke’s nuts off after he also had to bail out the big dollar hooker his stupid brother was hanging with. The two dumbasses got shitfaced and ended up in a public area of the Bellagio hotel with his brother wearing nothing but boots and a hat.
And then, of course, Burke’s claim to fame – getting caught in Jackson Hole having a threesome with a reporter doing a story about the ranch and a waitress he sweet-talked who blabbed to TMZ. The guy was an equal opportunity Lothario.
It might be fucked up to wish this, but Wyn totally hoped some no-nonsense female came along who wouldn’t be at all impressed with his younger brother’s womanizing shtick and put him in his place.
Turning around as a laugh rumbled from his chest, he crossed his arms and leaned against the counter. Just at that exact moment, a shadow crossed the front windows and fully startled him into a defensive posture.
Who the fuck dared to come out here? The bunkhouse was his sanctuary. The oasis he needed when getting away and being alone was a top priority. Prepared to knock whoever the fuck it was on their ass, he quickly crossed the single room and yanked the door open.
His bark was not a greeting. “Big mistake.”
He jumped back, and his mouth dropped open when a startled woman who was in the midst of knocking gasped and almost fell face first across the threshold.
Sami.
Aw, fuck.
“Wyn, my god! You scared the shit out of me.”
One – it was Sami on his threshold. Not Samantha Hayes.
Two – being this close to her made his heart thump.
Three – he was so very, very fucked that it wasn’t even funny.
A murmur coming from the area of his heart made the moment seem bigger than it was. It wasn’t fair that after all this time and everything that happened, he still wanted her. Still loved her.
“What do you want?” When the unfriendly tone of his angry growl hit his ears, he closed his eyes but refused to sigh or shake his head as he reeled in his response. If he had a lick of sense, slamming the door in her face would be his best move. Sadly, he had as much sense as he had fucks to give.
A shadow from the brim of her hat slanted across her face. The need to read her expression made him squint and peer closer. Her eyes had a mysterious vibe, and he could tell she wasn’t all that sure of herself.
Confusion raced through his system. She was a big girl now, not a teenager, and she was also an actress. He might not understand what the fuck motivated her for the past ten years, but he knew enough about the girl he fell in love with to grasp that she was allowing him to see that she was vulnerable. To him.
He swallowed, and his heart boomed in his chest.
And then, in a flash, she took a hard right turn that left him standing at the door with his mouth cranked open.
Sashaying past despite his feeble attempt to block her with his body, she pranced into the bunkhouse like she owned the damn place. As if she belonged there.
“I brought you some of Grandpa’s tea! Made it fresh – the way you like it!” She hefted a pitcher of liquid that sloshed with her movements. Her grin was pure mischief.
She turned in a slow circle, put the pitcher on the island, and whistled. “Wyn! Whoa! This place is awesome.”
“Damn straight,” he mumbled.
Her eyes snapped to his, and she laughed. “Okay, Mr. Grumpy. Learn how to take a compliment, why don’t you? Sheesh!”
He shook his head to clear the thoughts running riot in his brain. This time, when he asked the question, he put some zing into it so there’d be no mistaking that he expected a goddamn answer.
“What – do you want?”
She pulled off the hat and tossed it on the island next to the pitcher. That was the moment his mind registered what she had on. Five seconds later, his dick noticed too.
He wasn’t stupid.
Well, yeah, he was. But he knew an outfit with purpose when he saw one because it was something she’d taught him a long time ago. Her standard snarky drawl was “dress for the outcome, not the situation.” Word salad that her female brain employed to explain why she had no panties on under her graduation gown. Even for Sami, her rationale was all sorts of fucked up. And hilarious. The situation was graduating from high school. The outcome she wanted was him on top of her and buried deep because she was eighteen and out of school. The reminder of that night made his balls tighten.
That was how his Sami was back then. Ballsy, straightforward, and a bit of a nympho.
Shit. It was hot and stuffy, wasn’t it? Sweat gathered around his collar.
When she answered his rude and demanding question, she did so from a posture that made his knees wobble.
Cowgirl boots firmly planted with her legs slightly parted, she crossed her arms and pouted. All he saw was bare legs that went on for miles, a couple of inches of stomach, and the way her tits taunted him behind the mostly unbuttoned shirt.
“I think what I want is sort of obvious.”
He couldn’t believe she went there right out of the gate. Counting to ten, he made a half-assed attempt to be the man his father raised, but his mouth wasn’t having it.
“So is that the deal?” He growled. “You trolling for cock, Sami? Is that what this performance is about? Do you need to be fucked, little girl?”
She stomped her foot like a six-year-old and glared at him. “Erwyn Thomas! Shut your filthy mouth.”
There was no denying that barking his full name and her angry stomp were funny as shit. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, but the burst of laughter wouldn’t cooperate, and he was forced to give it oxygen.
“Don’t you Erwyn me, Samantha!”
He was surprised when her brows bumped together, and a frown marred her pretty face. Realization was dawning on him. He hated being referred to as Erwyn. It was the one thing his parents did that drove him craziest. Her reaction when he called her Samantha felt oddly similar.
A small, quiet voice in his conscience said, “Maybe being Samantha Hayes wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.”
Her surprising him was so normal that he barely reacted when she threw her hands up and huffed with obvious exasperation.
“Goddammit, Wyn. What?” she barked. “What isn’t clear to you about this? I came home. For good. All that other shit is done. I get that you need me to own everything that happened but cut me a break. You don’t come out all that well in the telling either, so I would
appreciate it if you didn’t paint me with a slut brush. Shit happened. We both fucked up.”
Her pointed smirky leer when she deliberately eyeballed the bulge in his jeans took all the wind out of his sails.
“Here’s how I see it,” she continued without missing a beat. “You’re pissed off at me, and I’m not exactly happy with you either – but enough is enough. This is my home too, and I’m not going anywhere. If your ego needs me to spell it out, I will. This is where I want to be because this is where you are. I’m not pretending the past ten years didn’t happen, but let’s take a minute to be honest. I’ve never stopped loving you, and this grumpy old man act you have going on is the next best thing to an admission that you’re still in love with me.”
He growled and didn’t know why.
And then she flipped the script, and he was left floundering.
“Hey! Is that your mom’s stoneware? I love this design!”
Blinking with surprise, he watched her dash around the island to the rough-hewn built-in under the windows where he stacked the dishware. She picked up one of the dinner plates and stared at it.
“God, I remember when she made these. Your poor dad!” Her laughter filled the old bunkhouse. “Remember all the yelling when he had the guys help install that kiln?”
His answering laugh was automatic. Marcy Thomas and her wonder-kiln was a story that got a lot of mileage – still, even after all these years. Before his mom burned out that particular passion, she’d made shit for half the ranch families in a thousand-mile radius. He snagged this set specifically because it reminded him of Sami.
Pretending he wasn’t still emotionally involved was an exercise in futility.
She put the plate back on the stack and started moving around the open room. He watched her fingers drift across the top of a concrete counter and readjust the angle of an antique tin bread holder.
“You did all this yourself?”
He nodded and looked around – trying to see the old bunkhouse from her point of view. It didn’t look anything like the crappy shack where they perfected their tempestuous fucking style. The shitty old sofa bed was history. Taking its place was a clever futon setup that doubled as a lounger. Had he fantasized about making love to her on the thick, comfortable cushion? Yes.
Everything he did, every goddamn thing, had something to do with Sami. Pretending otherwise was just plain dumb.
Proud of how he’d transformed the space, he nodded. “My version of a Wyoming man cave. No frills and no fucking TV.”
Sami snickered. “What’s that?” She pointed at a game system hooked into an old twenty-inch Mitsubishi television he’d swiped from Burke’s room.
“Mandatory man cave equipment,” he answered with a straight face.
“Looks like a TV to me.”
When they converted the Triple T to a guest ranch, one of the first things they had to invest in, besides dozens of guest cabins, was the satellite communication options their guests expected. The whole place was connected – everywhere but here. The bunkhouse wasn’t for binge watching brainless shit. He came here to unplug.
Everything changed when she bent over to look at the books crammed onto a low shelf. Actually, the change began the second he opened the door, but her ass hanging out of the skimpy shorts sealed the deal.
In his head, he walked up to her and took hold of her hips so he could rub his hard-on against her ass. She’d quiver. Sami used to quiver a lot. He wondered if she still did.
He caught himself as his feet moved automatically toward her and veered off awkwardly. To cover, he made a production out of tending to the pot of chili.
She was suddenly at his side – practically on top of him. Her hand on his back near his waist made him sigh. It seemed like a lifetime ago when her hands had last touched him.
“You know,” she murmured close enough to his shoulder that he felt her breath, “I wouldn’t turn down a bowl of your chili.”
Feeding her was a knee-jerk reaction. Though he’d tried to teach her how to cook and despite the fact her dad ran a diner, Sami had the kitchen skills of a pampered but well-meaning princess. She loved to fuck around in the kitchen but managed to make a mess of things because, in her mind, a recipe was just a suggestion.
“Grab two bowls and if you look in the fridge, there’s a bunch of toppings.”
“Got any Fritos?”
“Of course.” He snickered.
She looked at him with triumph tattooed on her face. Smashed Fritos as a chili topping was a Sami Colton original. Acknowledging the tradition she fashioned was like admitting to carrying a torch.
Nah, fuck that. What he felt for her wasn’t one of those fake flames on the end of a bamboo pole. His fire was more of a flame-thrower, and those damn Fritos were the fuel.
He filled two of his mom’s stoneware bowls, grabbed some spoons, and put it all on the table.
“Sun’s over the yardarm,” he drawled. “I’ve got a wicked Rioja that pairs great.”
She barked with laughter. His skin prickled at the husky sound. “Honestly, darlin’, I don’t know what to comment on first! Sun’s over the yardarm? Wine pairings?”
Chuckling, he turned his head to catch her eyes. “Fuck off. I read!” He insisted with mock effrontery. “And you have Marcy to thank for everything I know about wine.”
He took the bottle from the large wine rack and rolled his eyes. “She made me take a cruise with her when my dad broke his foot and couldn’t go. I tried to convince her Burke would be a better companion, but she wouldn’t budge. Ten days of ocean liner luxury around a foodie theme. Celebrity chefs taught cooking classes, and every day there was another wine workshop. Mom’s something of an expert now.” He sniggered.
They sat at the table, and she reached for his wrist. Squeezing gently, she smiled. “I think it’s sweet how close you two are.”
At that moment, his heart ached for her. Losing her mother when she was so young had fucked with her head. It was hard to stay mad when shit like that touched his feelings.
“She loves you,” was all he said before ducking his head to focus on stirring his bowl of chili.
Blue eyes that changed shade with her mood watched him. He was afraid to look at her, and that fear made him question what the fuck he was doing.
An uncomfortable few moments passed. He heard plastic rustling and chanced half a glance. She was wrestling with the unopened bag of Fritos. Sami’s relationship with opening anything was a marvel to behold. Tear the corner? Nah! Her style was more along the lines of ripping the whole fucking thing to shreds and end up dumping half the contents in the process.
“Gimme that,” he snarled. Snatching the bag from her hands before she assaulted it further, he gave her a dead stare while neatly pulling the sides apart. “See? No spillage.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when her hand slapped the wood table and grabbed the edge like she was holding on for life. Her reaction sent his eyes searching for hers.
Her lips were pressed together in a line so tight that a white ring appeared around her mouth. Wondering what the hell set off her fury, he was startled when her chest started shuddering.
She wasn’t mad. She was struggling not to laugh.
He searched his mind. He even rewound the last minute or so, looking for what was so goddamn funny.
Oh.
Wait.
Yeah.
He heard it now.
Hoping something to drink might relieve the surge of heat that made his face and neck feel like they were on fire, he reached for the glass of wine and took an unfortunate gulp that went straight to his head.
“As I recall,” she taunted with a sexy giggle, “condom spillage was a bunkhouse concern.”
With his brain doing the Rioja hustle and his dick having a laugh, he met her gaze and gave back a bit of what she was putting out. Letting his sex drive run free wasn’t his smartest idea, but he didn’t give a fuck. Sami Colton didn’t inspire much of anything th
at was smart. With her, it was always about something else. Something deeper. Primitive, basic, and at times, animalistic.
He took her taunt with a leer, and without thinking, his eyes moved to the floor. In the corner of the kitchen where the concrete counter and reclaimed wood cabinets joined was a section of wood floor that once upon a wicked time had puddled with her leaking fluid.
Just like that, the unbidden memory of bending her over and pounding into her sweet pussy from behind while she leaned on an old table and howled her pleasure filled his senses and his mind.
She also looked at the floor and then at him. Their eyes held. The shared memory softened her expression.
And then she looked like she might cry.
Being a total coward where Sami and tears were concerned, he gruffly suggested she finish with the Fritos so he could close the bag.
The confusing sexual dynamic messed with more parts of him than he knew he had. He dropped his spoon into the chili bowl when his fingers didn’t work. His breathing changed. The corner of one eye twitched. Every muscle from the waist down tightened and burned. His tongue felt thick and heavy and no longer seemed to fit in his mouth.
* * *
She regretted falling prey to innuendo, but the term spillage coming out of his mouth just begged for it. When he looked down and the memory overtook her senses of how he could make her come until liquid arousal dripped down her legs and wet the floor, a new worry made her squirm.
For her, the bunkhouse was sacred ground. It was where her sexual enlightenment played out. They fooled around here. A full year of making out and becoming intimately familiar christened the old shack and set the stage for her first time. It happened exactly as she knew it would. Wyn’s staunch refusal to go all the way until things were right drove her teenage self batshit, but he’d been right in the end. He’d somehow managed to hold off her constant demands once she’d officially turned eighteen. Her legal status wasn’t enough. In his heart, Wyn was an honorable man, and for his own sense of right and wrong, his true self demanded that high school also be in the rearview.