Page 57 of Riding the Storm
I force my eyes away before he catches me staring again and hurry up the steps.
Inside, the house smells heavenly, and there’s a hum of conversation and laughter coming from the kitchen. I head upstairs, push open the door to my room, and find Harleigh already there, sitting cross-legged on my bed with her hair in curls and her makeup halfway done.
“Hey,” she says, tossing down the mascara wand. “I forgot to pack my curling iron, so I had to borrow yours.”
“And my makeup too?” I say, kicking off my boots.
“Yep. I like your shadow palettes better than mine,” she admits, leaning back on her elbows.
I shake my head. I’m used to my little sisters raiding my closet and vanity. They’ve been doing it for years.
“You’d better hurry up,” she says. “Caison texted a few minutes ago that he and Matty are en route.”
“Shoot,” I say as I shrug out of my tee and jeans. “I was distracted, trying to get the flower arrangements just right.”
“Sure you were.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask as I tug on a long-sleeved rust-colored dress with a subtle textured pattern. It has a deep V neckline that shows just a touch of cleavage, a flowy A-line skirt, and gathered sleeves.
“You weren’t distracted by … I don’t know … watching a certain bull rider haul firewood?”
I freeze halfway between the bed and my closet. “What?”
Harleigh grins. “Oh, come on, Char. It’s so obvious he was watching you too. The man practically burned a hole clean through you with his heated stare.”
I roll my eyes, grabbing a wide black belt with hammered silver detail and hooking it around my waist, cinching the dress.
“He did not. I swear you have an active imagination.”
“Mm-huh, sure,” she says, singsong. “Deny it all you want, but you aren’t fooling anyone but yourself.”
I ignore her and step into a pair of black cowboy boots with silver stitching before walking to the standing mirror.
Harleigh comes up behind me. “You look great,” she says.
“Thanks. Can you help me with this?” I hand her a silver necklace with an onyx pendant.
She nods and steps closer, fiddling with the clasp as I gather my hair and bring it up, away from my neck.
I feel her go still, and then her wide eyes meet mine.
“Oh my God,” she gasps.
“What?”
“Charli …”
I blink at her in the mirror. “What?”
“Is that”—she leans closer—“a hickey?”
“What?” I whip around, sweeping my hair aside and glancing backward in the mirror. And there it is. A quarter-sized purple mark just behind my ear. My stomach drops. “Oh, that son of a—”
Harleigh squeals, “That is a hickey!”
“Shh!” I hiss, lunging for my makeup bag. “Keep your voice down!”
But of course, that’s the exact moment Shelby pokes her head in. “What’s all the screaming about?” She stops, eyes narrowing as she sees Harleigh grinning and me furiously dabbing concealer on my neck. “Oh, hell no. Is that what I think it is?”
