Page 11 of On the Wild Side

“Shereallylikes you, that’s all.”

“I’ll keep my distance.” He still won’t look me in the eyes. “You’re going to get frostbite on your feet, Abbi.”

“Brady—”

“Go inside.” The words aren’t harsh, but they leave no room for argument, so I back away and let him shut the door and return inside, where Daisy’s sitting on the stairs, holding thebunny she’s had since she was a baby, looking at me with wide brown eyes.

“Did he get mad?”

I don’t know what in the hell he is. He looked…lost.“No, baby. I think he had to get home. There’s a lot to do at the ranch, you know.”

“He doesn’t want to be my daddy.”

“Come here.” I take her hand and lead her to the couch where we snuggle in like we do when we’re watching movies. “Sweetheart, it’s not that easy.”

“He likes us.”

“Sure, he does. And he’s nice to us, but that doesn’t mean he wants to live with us and be married to me. That’s what it means, Dais, and that’s a big deal. It’s not something that’s decided over breakfast after a dance.”

“Okay.”

My heart breaks at the defeat in her little voice, and I kiss her head, breathing in her shampoo.

“I love you, pumpkin.”

“I love you, too.”

“What do you want to do today?”

“Can we make cookies?”

That’s my girl, forever with the sweet tooth. “Sure. Why not? Snowy days are for cookies.”

I hadto take matters into my own hands.

So to speak.

I’ve been living with perpetual sexual frustration for the past two weeks since Brady spent the night during the snowstorm. Ihaven’t heardone wordfrom him, and I can take a hint when a man just isn’t interested.

Although, I’ll admit, there were some mixed messages there, what with the hottest kiss of the goddamn century, but if he was interested in more, he’d contact me.

He has my number.

But there has been nothing. Nada. Zilch. And I need relief from this constant ache for the stubborn son of a bitch.

Not that Joy’s a bitch. Brady’s mom is the best.

Anyway, I broke down and bought a toy. Anadulttoy. Online.

And it just arrived. I’ve unboxed it and am frowning at it, wondering where the batteries go, when Daisy gets home.

Of course, she sees the packing box.

“I want to see what we got,” she says as she lets her bookbag drop and starts to shed out of her coat.

“No, ma’am,” I reply, shaking my head, shoving the toy in the back of my jeans and covering it with my sweatshirt. “It’s too close to Christmas for you to be looking in delivery boxes.”

Thank God for that excuse.

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