Page 54 of Riding the Storm
Charli’s sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on her boots.
Her hair’s a tangled mess, and the T-shirt she wore last night is wrinkled, hanging off one shoulder. She’s quiet as she focuses on her task.
I prop myself up on one elbow and watch her for a moment.
“Hey,” I murmur, voice rough from sleep. “You sneaking out on me, Chuck?”
She doesn’t look back. Just tugs on her second boot and stands. “Want to get back to the house before anyone wakes up.”
I glance at the alarm clock sitting on the table beside my bed. “No one will be up anytime soon,” I say and reach for her hand, pulling her gently back toward me.
Her sigh is half exasperation, half something else as her ass hits the mattress. I brush my lips against her shoulder, just above the soft curve of her neck. Her skin’s still warm.
For a heartbeat, she leans back into me. Then she straightens, pulling away.
“All hands are needed on deck today,” she says briskly. “Matty’s surprise party is tonight. Shelby and I are helping Grandma Evelyn and Imma Jean get things ready, so you’re on chore duty with Cabe.”
And just like that, the switch flips.
Boss mode.
I can’t help but smile. “Yes, ma’am,” I say as I plop back against the headboard and watch her.
That earns me a look over her shoulder. Her eyes narrow, but there’s the tiniest flicker of amusement there.
“I mean it,” she warns. “Don’t be late. And don’t mention last night.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She studies me for a beat, her eyes drifting down to where the sheet settles over my waist. Then she exhales and says, “Good. I’m glad we got that out of our system.”
Well, shit. That comment stings more than I’d have expected it to.
She stands, the hem of her tee brushing against the soft skin at the back of her thighs, and starts for the front door. I move quickly, throwing on a pair of sweatpants, and follow her, catching up just as she steps outside into the crisp morning air.
“Charli.”
She stops, glancing back. The rising sun paints her in gold, and for a second, I forget what I was going to say.
“Yeah?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
Her lips curve, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Don’t be late today,” she says, and then she’s walking away—down the path toward the main house, boots crunching on gravel, her hair catching the light.
I watch until she’s out of sight.
The cabin’s quiet again, but this time, it feels different. The air still smells like her. The towel I was wearing when she ambushed me last night is on the floor, and my sheets are a mess. My pulse hasn’t quite settled.
I walk to the island and sink onto the edge of a stool. I drag a hand down my face and let out a low laugh.
“So, this is what it feels like,” I mutter to the empty room. “Being the one left in bed.”
It’s a strange mix—half amused, half annoyed, and something else I don’t want to name. Because I didn’t get a damn thing out of my system. If anything, I want her more now than before.
I grab the beer from last night, still sitting open on the counter, and take a long swallow. It’s warm and flat, but it does the job.
