Page 20 of Tangled Kisses
I nod, kicking a stone with the toe of my boot. “Seems you make this cowboy nervous.”
I don’t stumble, don’t sweat, don’t lose control. But with her, I’m a mess—and part of me craves it.
“I doubt any woman makes you nervous.”
“Most women don’t make me feel anything at all.”
Her expression softens, recognition flickering in her eyes. “I’ve been on a bit of a man-hating spree lately. But the truth is, most men don’t make me feel anything, either.”
I steal a glance at her. “What about your ex?”
“The only thing he ever made me feel was aggravated.” Bitterness sharpens her tone. “I wasted so much time convincing myself those crumbs he tossed me counted as love.”
“You’ll know love when it comes.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely. It’ll be impossible to ignore, and even more impossible to forget.”
She gives me a strange look, suspicion tangled in her gaze. “You’re good with the romantic lines.”
“No, I’m not.”
Her brow lifts. “You must admit. That was pretty romantic.”
“That’s because I said it to you.”
And there I go again, saying something I shouldn’t.
Something that could change everything.
But Reese softens a fraction, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Romance. I don’t know what that feels like.”
She trails her fingers over a leafy branch as we pass, her gaze flicking my way before darting forward again. “I’ll bet it’s nice.”
Nice? Romance with her would be ruin. I’d burn my whole life down just to give her what her bastard ex never did.
Plenty of women have told me something similar, swearing they don’t know romance. Most mean it as foreplay, a way to make me feel like some hero sweeping them off their feet. But Reese? She isn’t pretending. I can see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice—she really doesn’t know.
And that guts me.
Whatever her ex did, or didn’t do, it left scars. I want to erase every single one. Protect her. Undo the damage. Give her the kind of love she should’ve always had.
Reese straightens her spine and wags a playful finger at me as her emotional shield snaps back into place. “You’re good, cowboy. Line or not, thanks for making me feel special. Now, how about the rest of that tour? Because I could use a glass of wine.”
I smile, but inside I know the truth. That wasn’t sass; that was armor. A mask she wears the second she thinks she’s let too much slip. One I plan on pulling off, piece by piece, until she never feels like she has to hide again.
I sweep aside a branch blocking the path, gesturing her forward. “Your wish is my command.”
She rolls her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitch like she’s fighting another smile. She thinks I’m giving her routine charm. Truth is, I don’t have a routine. Not with her.
With clients, I keep a wall up—playful, polished, but never real. With Reese, every word slips out before I can stop it.
Her eyes widen as we approach the four-wheeler. “You promise that thing is safe?”
“You drive in New York. Trust me, this is safer.”
“Fair point.”
