Page 6 of Westin

My jaw drops, and it takes me a minute to pull myself together. For some reason, the fact that he’s older than me makes my toes curl even harder. My legs tingle, and the feeling creeps up my thighs and centers in my core.

Right where I feel like maybe it shouldn’t.

He’s so handsome, but it’s the way he’s looking at me that makes me feel something brand new, like I’m interesting, not just a potential place for him to get off. I stare, watching as he absently picks an apple from the fruit bowl. He rolls it in one hand, tossing and catching it.

“That scare you?”

I shake my head. “There’s nothing to be scared about. We’re just talking, sir.”

His pupils blow, but I’m not sure why. He straightens and puts his hat firmly back on his head. “You’re a little young, aren't you, darling?”

Indignantly, I put my hands on my hips. “For what?”

He crosses the room, pausing in the hallway. “If you don’t know what for, you’re definitely too young.”

For some reason, I’m crushed that he’s leaving. “Where are you going?”

He tosses me the apple, and I catch it.

“Call me after your birthday,” he says. “It was nice to meet you, Miss Carter.”

“That’s tomorrow,” I whisper. “My birthday is tomorrow.”

He dips his head. “See you tomorrow then, darling.”

I don’t tell him not to call me darling this time. He walks out, and the doors slams behind him. I stand there, knuckles white. It doesn’t occur to me until later, when I’m in bed staring at the ceiling, that I can’t call him. He didn’t leave his number.

I turn my head, staring at my bedside table.

My eyes fix on the round, red apple. I didn’t put it back in the kitchen—instead, I carried it up to my room. Now, it sits on my table, reminding me of him.

I only know three things about the cowboy in the black hat, and I run them over and over in my mind until I fall asleep.

He comes from Sovereign Mountain.

His name is Westin Quinn.

And he’s thirty-seven years old next month.

Everything else is a mystery.

CHAPTER TWO

WESTIN

BEFORE

I’m seven years old when my father puts a gun in my hands and lifts it.

In the distance, the tin cans waver in my eyeline. He steps back, resting his hand on his hip, and I glance over my shoulder, keeping the gun steady.

He’s watching me without offering any corrections this time. Inside, I glow with pride. My father isn’t a bad man. I’d go so far as to say he’s an honest man who loves his family, but his jaw is always set at a grim angle.

He looks out at the world like a bullet from the barrel of a shotgun. If it threatens him, he’ll shoot back.

And my father doesn’t miss. For me, at seven, that means the pinnacle of achievement is to be a man who shoots and never misses.

I turn back around and huff out a breath. It’s hot, high summer.

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