Page 11 of Blue Collar Hotties

Cade

“Hey, Cade.” Riley bounces up to me in the dairy aisle, where I’m loading our cart up on enough milk, cheese and butter to last us a couple weeks. “You wanna make pizzas tonight?”

“Sure.” I glance up at the frozen goods behind me, scanning for pizza boxes. “I’ll grab some in a second.”

“No.” My angel is bright-eyed and pink-cheeked, practically vibrating off the linoleum with excitement. “I mean, let’s make pizzas from scratch. I know how. Luis taught me last summer.”

I watch closely for the usual flinch whenever she says her brother’s name, and it’s there, but her smile barely falters. Rileyreallywants to make these pizzas. I’m no chef, but that’s enough of a reason for me.

“Can you fetch the ingredients?”

She grins and bounces off, her loose waves dancing against her shoulders, and I watch her go like an idiot. I’m clutching a brick of cheese in one hand, trying not to reach for her with the other.

I shouldn’t have touched her like that this morning. Not only was it out of line, but now I can’t get the feel of her off my fingertips. Hours later, my hand is still tingling and warm, my fingers itching to wrap around her hip once again.

It doesn’t help that she’sstillin my navy shirt, a pair of gray leggings pulled on underneath. Did she put on a bra too?

Fuck me. Such a messed up thing to wonder about my dead friend’s little sister.

Our shopping cart squeaks as I push it through the aisles, one wheel wobbling like crazy, the fluorescent lights buzzing softly high above. Piled high with fresh veggies and canned goods and other supplies, this cart should tide us over for a good while.

Then I can whisk Riley back to the cabin. Away from all these prying eyes.

Goddamn it, she draws a lot of attention.

She’s notseekingit. I don’t think she’s even aware, but every aisle she skips down, chattering brightly to me about some food she wants to cook or snacks she’s been craving, there are at least three sets of hungry eyes on her. Men in groups and men alone. Hikers and hunters. Young guys and men old enough to be her father, and the occasional woman too.

Makes me want to beat my chest and growl that it’smydamn t-shirt she’s wearing. That she’s coming home withme.

“Do you have a headache?” Riley pops up at my shoulder, her arms full of pizza-making supplies. Those chocolate and honeycomb eyes are narrowed with concern. “Is it the fluorescents? I could grab painkillers.”

“It’s fine.” It’s not the lights messing me up, damn it, it’s the constant urge to grab Riley and plaster her body against mine. The never ending lust pounding in my veins.

It can wear a man down, fighting his nature like that. And I’m not about to give in, but yeah. I have a headache.

“It’ll get better at the cabin,” I tell her, and it’s true. Back at the cabin, there won’t be all these other fuckers sniffing round my girl. Putting my hackles up and sharpening my need to kiss her, fuck her,claimher.

Forgive me, Luis.

“Okay. If you’re sure.” The pizza supplies tumble into the cart from her arms, then Riley’s grabbing my sleeve. Nudging me toward the checkouts.

How can the lightest brush of her knuckles against my arm do such intense things to me? Every ounce of my awareness is zoomed in on that tiny point of contact; every cell in my body is waiting, shivering with anticipation for where her next innocent touch might land.

But once we reach the checkout, she lets go. Starts loading up the belt with our groceries, and I grit my teeth through the swooping sense of loss before helping with that, too.

We work in companionable silence. Packets rustle. Cans clink.

“Mornin’.”

Neither of us realize at first that the voice is directed at us. Well—at Riley. Then a man clears his throat and tries again, sidling up to lean against the edge of our checkout. “Hey, sweetheart.”

Riley startles, glancing over at the man. My heart sinks when I realize he’s not old or ugly—in fact, since I got my scars, this asshole’s a damn sight better-looking than me. With his thick brown hair and deep country tan, he grins at her, wide and confident, and trails his eyes all over her like he has any fucking right.

I go rigid.

My heart slows right down, slamming so hard in my chest I swear I could crack a rib.

“That your boyfriend, sweetheart?” The man’s eyes barely flick to me, lingering on my scarred neck. He’s so confident that we’re not together, and I guess he’s not wrong, but it sickens something deep inside me. Does it really seem that impossible?

---