Page 19 of Braving the Storm
Fuck off. He’s not giving my niece cutesy nicknames. There are plenty of other skirts in Crimson Ridge he can chase.
“Kayce, you good to check the shoe I just fitted for Winnie? Front left. Want to make sure you’re happy with how it’s looking, since we know Colt’s a fussy bastard and all.” I settle on the first excuse that comes to mind to get him to piss off. It’s a complete lie. Those shoes are perfect, but she’s housed the furthest away, down the opposite end of the barn.
“Sure, man. Though you know these horses just about better than I do by now.” He hands me the reins, shakes his head, and then heads off, whistling in the direction of Winnie’s stall.
“Let’s get you down. You’ve done the fun part. Now you can do the real work. Help sort out Ollie’s tack and get her fed and watered before we go.” I tap her knee, indicating for her to swing her other leg around.
As I do so, she stiffens ever so slightly. Dark eyes flicker over the hovering position of my hand, quickly up to meet my gaze, and then back to the horse beneath her.
“Don’t drop me,” she mutters.
“Would your uncle do that?” I raise an eyebrow, studying her from beneath the brim of my hat. Why? Maybe I’m testing her, pushing the limits on purpose like this because it’s just how I’m wired.
I’m curious, and I absolutely have to be certifiable that I’m watching for her reaction this closely. To see how she responds when I float that word between us.
“I don’t know if I trust you.”
“Good. So youarea quick learner.”
“Ugh.” She rolls her eyes, but then does as I asked. Twisting her body in the saddle, she swings her leg behind her while holding the pommel.
“That’s it. I’ve got you.” As her weight slides down, I grab hold of her waist, supporting the long drop to the ground.
Fuck, she feels… there’s something so goddamn wrong with me that the minute I close my fingers over her jacket—my jacket, that she’s still wearing since I told her to yesterday, and I’m not ready to face the reason why I like the sight of her dwarfed inside it so damn much—I’m itching to drag her against my chest.
“Thanks.” She sounds a little breathless, and for a long moment, we linger much closer than necessary. Briar’s head is turned ever so slightly to the side, near enough I can see her long eyelashes, near enough that my mouth could very easily brush against her ear if I bent closer.
The things I could whisper to this girl if she were someone, anyone, else.
What devilish promises I would make to lure a gorgeous young woman into doing very improper things with me just the other side of the wooden door to the nearest stall.
Dirty thoughts about her on her knees, giving me those shimmering chestnut eyes. What her pretty pink tongue would look like presented for me, willingly, between lush, parted lips.
As it is, her scent of vanilla and peach rushes through my nose, and my thumbs graze up and down the spot above her waist.
Briar’s shoulders rise and fall, and the seconds drag out. It’s electrified, the air filling the space between her spine, merely inches from my chest, and where her ponytail runs down between her shoulder blades, each invisible molecule almost crackles.
Or maybe that’s the blood rushing in my goddamn ears.
Long curls hang down the back of her neck, and I’m sick and twisted enough to be itching to wrap that ponytail around my fist. Wanting to hear exactly what her breathy gasp might sound like if you tugged hard. Just the way I bet this girl likes to be treated.
Well, shit. I’ve officially crossed another depraved line I didn’t know was there until I ignored everything and sailed right past it. Now I know exactly what is going to preoccupy my perverted goddamn mind all night as I toss and turn on that fucking unbearable couch.
The scuff of boots and Kayce humming to himself jerks me out of whatever trance I’d just been caught in. I cough into my fist to clear the rock lodged in my throat, stepping back to put a healthy—you know, appropriately uncle and niece-sized—distance between us, and Briar ducks her head.
She reaches out to pat Ollie’s neck, splaying her pastel pink painted fingernails wide, but speaks soft enough that only I can hear. I don’t know whether it’s on purpose, or just my imagination, but it seems like she doesn’t want Kayce overhearing her words.
“I’d love to see you in the saddle sometime.”
Chapter 8
It has been a week since I uprooted my life, flew halfway across the country on a whim, and arrived in Crimson Ridge.
One week.
Seven days since that night, when my uncle not only wrapped his tattooed hand around my neck, but I’m certain he also reached inside my brain and did something to alter the cogs and inner workings of my mind while he was at it.
I haven’t been the same since.
