Page 28 of A Fighting Chance

Also, can we talk about leggings for a moment? Because I’m fairly certain the devil herself sewed those bad boys together to assert female dominance over all the horn-dogs in the world. And by all the horn-dogs, I mean all the men. All of them. That’s right, we’re all horn-dogs, and I can’t help but trace the lines of her legs over and over again with my eyes. My mouth is watering.

Awesome.

I attempt to shake the thoughts from my mind and pull my eyes away again. If anything, this only further solidifies my need to do, well, something.

Harper is right. I have to make a move.

And having her blessing has to be a good thing, right?

So, it’s settled. I will make a move.

But how?

Ten

Lyla

The restof Saturday and most of Sunday pass without incident. And when I say “incident”, I mean without awkward or intense moments with Gentry. Perhaps it’s due to the fact that I was busy writing a couple of articles promised by Monday morning, or because he spent a lot of the time away from the farm, checking on some local suppliers. Whatever the reason, our paths haven’t crossed much.

That is, until Sunday evening after dinner. I start up the stairs and feel someone behind me. When I glance over my shoulder, he’s right there. And if I’m correct, he’s checking out my backside as he ascends the stairs. I turn back around and ignore him, continuing up the stairs. He’s so close I can feel the friction in the air around me, the intensity palpable.

I walk to my door and look over to see him walking to his. He looks back at me, a smile wide across his face, though I can’t read the reason behind it. I turn back to my door and immediately understand why. Another note is taped to my door. I look back again but he’s already disappeared behind his own, so I pull it down and enter my bedroom.

Do you want to sleep

in my bean bag chair again?

I roll my eyes but can’t contain my smile. Now he’s just being an idiot.

Clearly, I don’t need to sleep in his bean bag chair.

But part of me does kind of want to.

The chair is comfortable; I can’t deny it. I actually slept better in that chair than I do in the bed in my own room.

Or was it because I’d slept with him?

I don’t want to take that train of thought to crazy town tonight.

I change into my pajamas, choosing something more modest this time. I decide on a pair of sweatpants and a tank top with thicker straps, so as to cover more than the previous one. I slip out of my room—this time carrying my own blanket—and cross the hall to his, where I knock quietly.

I hear him get up from his bed and come to the door before he opens it. “Hi there,” he says, a smile emerging again.

“When you say sleep in your chair do you mean with you or alone?” I ask, getting straight to the point.

“Whichever you’d like more,” he says, opening his door wider and gesturing to the chairs in front of his fireplace.

I look past him to the very large, very fluffy, and wonderfully comfortable chairs in the room. “Alone,” I say, entering his room and making my way to the chair I’d claimed the other night.

“Are you sure about that? What if you get cold?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at me.

I raise my blanket at him without a word and plop myself down in the center of the chair, fluffing it up like it’s a nest. I snuggle under my blanket, solidifying the notion it’s all I need around me, and look up at him.

He holds his hands up at me, conceding to the point I’m making. Then, he crosses the room and sits in the other chair.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Sitting next to you,” he says.

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