Page 17 of Dust Storm

“You said you hated my fiancé.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, well, I can interact politely with people I don’t like. Once you’re grown, it shouldn’t be hard to compartmentalize being mature even if you have the desire to watch a human turd return to his roots and wade in a pool of shit. Be polite and let karma handle things. It can be a real bitch.”

I crooked a finger, drawing him closer. “So can I.”

His beard split, and he flashed a grin. “You want me to think that, don’t you?”

The truck ride back to the ranch house was significantly better than the horseback ride to Christian’s house.

I sat in the front while the girls giggled in the backseat. I still had no idea what I was going to do about my current living situation. That cabin wasnothabitable.

I also wasn’t about to have a prolonged sleepover in a house that included children.

Maybe Becks could do me a solid … again … and let me crash with her and her husband.

Then again, she was pregnant. Pregnant people grossed me out.

The truck stopped and the girls barreled out of the back.

“Ah—what do you think you’re doing? Get back inside,” Christian said.

I watched the situation unfold as Bree and Gracie climbed back into the truck, even though dinner waited for us inside.

Christian closed the door, waited until they settled, then opened the door again.

They climbed out exactly how they had the first time and immediately ran inside. I reached for my door handle, but he beat me to it.

“Rule number one. You ride in my truck; you let me open the door.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Is that what that was about?”

He nodded. “One day they’re gonna be old enough to go on dates. That means I have to teach them about acceptable treatment. I don’t know how you were raised, but my parents taught me to open doors for ladies. That’s what my daughters will expect.”

I slid out. The heels of my Manolos sunk into the dirt. “And here I was, thinking you’d be the ‘wait on the porch with a shotgun’ type. Or just lock them in their rooms until they’re forty.”

He chuckled as he slammed the door shut. “Don’t tempt me.”

I smoothed down the wrinkles and wished I could erase the dust smudges that streaked my favorite white power suit. It was low-cut and lethal.

I loved it.

I had been in these clothes for the better part of eighteen hours and desperately wanted to change, or at least put on fresh underwear.

I smelled like airports, horse shit, and spite.

Christian put his hand on my back as we made our way up the stairs, but I sidestepped his touch and caught a raised eyebrow in the process.

“I could run a marathon in these shoes. Stairs are nothing.”

But Christian didn’t argue. He merely faced forward. “Jackass did a real number on you,” he muttered into that beard of his.

I had never been into beards. I liked seeing the chiseled jawline of a man. But the way Christian ran his hand down the side of his beard stirred something dormant inside of me.

His was smooth and neat; trimmed an inch beneath his jawline. As he ducked inside the front door of the ranch house, he removed his cowboy hat, giving me another peek at the man bun that held loosely tied brown hair.

How long was his hair?

I settled into the role of an observer as I followed Christian through the house. Something stew-like smelled incredible.

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