Page 109 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
I won’t lie.
A solid ten.
Best part of my day.
“You sucker punched me.” He struggles to catch his breath, slowly standing.
Figures, he’s only down for seconds.
I prefer the term strategic payback.
Or payback’s a bitch, buddy.
“Before we go any further, we need some ground rules,” I say.
He shoots me a glare, still partially bent over, as he tries to regain his composure.
“Ground rules? Like the ones you gave your sisters before they ‘didn’t forget’ you?”
Do not swing.
Do not kick.
Do not strangle this man with his own belt.
Or do all three, leave him on the side of the road, and steal his bus.
That’s my favorite option, and if I didn’t have my sisters to answer to, I might very well have followed through with it.
“No reckless driving,” I begin. “You’re not riding a stallion across open plains. No detours. No touching. No surprise stops. No crying country ballads on the radio. No deep talks about life, death, and not one word about my bucket list.” I snap the book from the step on which he left it. “And absolutely no shirtless lounging.”
He blinks. “Didn’t realize that was on the table.”
“It’s not on the table. Or the couch. Or anywhere near me.”
He folds his arms over his chest, and I wonder if he’s still trying to calm himself after having the wind knocked out of him. “It’s my bus, sweetheart. I make the rules.”
I cross my arms tighter, the book pressing against my breasts, refusing to back down.
“Do you have your phone?”
He shrugs. “Now that you mention it, I didn’t see it.”
“Perfect. No phones. No online maps. What about a navigation system? All RVs come with one, but since y’all converted this, is there one?”
He shakes his head.
“So, the only way to the rodeo is by using my map?”
Without breaking eye contact, he reaches behind his neck and slowly peels off his shirt. Each movement is deliberate.
The fabric slips over broad, sun-kissed shoulders, revealing arms carved with lean muscle and veins that pulse with quiet strength.
His chest is flat and firm, dusted with rebellious hairs that trail down toward the waistband of his worn jeans. Faint scars and freckles scatter across his skin, telling stories of long days under the southern sun.
He tosses the shirt over his shoulder like a flag declaring victory.
Asshole.
