Page 55 of Riding the Storm
“Crazy woman,” I say under my breath, shaking my head. “If she thinks we’re done doing that, she’s got another thing coming.”
The morning rolls on, and after my second cold shower in the last six hours, I pull on a tee and jeans before heading out. The sun’s just peeking over the ridge, setting the valley aglow. Horses in the paddock lift their heads when I walk by, the cool morning air steaming from their nostrils.
Cabe’s already at the stables, leaning against a post with a coffee in hand. He smirks when he sees me.
“Good morning, superstar,” he sings. “Running a little late this morning, aren’t you?”
It’s seven. Which, after the night I had, is damn good if you ask me.
“Yep. Got any more of that?” I ask, gesturing toward his coffee.
He walks over to the door that leads to Matty’s office and comes back with a Styrofoam cup. Steam rising from its mouth.
“Here you go,” he says, handing me the steaming coffee. “Damn, dude. You look rough.”
“Thanks,” I grunt. “You’re no prize to look at either.”
“Uh-huh. Now you know what a morning after a night out with the Storm sisters feels like.”
“Hell?” I ask as I run a hand down the back of my neck.
“Exactly. Well, come on. Let’s get to it. Charli will have our asses if we don’t get this work done on time today.”
“Hand me a rake.”
He chuckles, passing me the handle. “Guess she has you jumping at her command too.”
He has no fucking idea.
I start on the stalls, grateful for the distraction. The rhythmic scrape of hay and the smell of horse settle me more than any shower ever could. Still, my mind drifts back—again and again—to last night.
And this morning.
To the way she said it meant nothing, like it was a warning. Like she was afraid I’d fall in love after one night inside of her or some stupid shit like that.
Like I’m some virgin school kid instead of a man who has had plenty of women warm his bed. Hell, too many, if you ask my management. Butnone of them ever left me feeling like this—off-balance, half angry and half wanting to pull them right back into bed just to prove a point.
Charli Storm is different in a way I can’t quite explain.
I tell myself to let it go. That she’s just another woman who made a bad call after too many drinks.
Great. Now I’m calling myself names.
But every time I close my eyes, I feel her again—her breath on my neck, the way she fit me like a glove and cried my name when she came.
And that’s the problem.
Because I want to hear her scream it again.
By the time noon rolls around, Cabe and I have finished the stalls, turned out the horses, and started hauling feed. Sweat drips down my back. I pause at the gate, leaning on the rail and staring toward the main house.
From here, I can just make out figures moving on the porch—Charli, Shelby, and what looks like Imma Jean arranging flowers on makeshift tables. Laughter floats on the wind, light and easy.
Her eyes drift to where I’m standing, and we lock gazes for a moment before she turns back to Imma Jean. And all I can think about is that look in her eyes last night—the one that said she wanted me just as bad as I wanted her—and how quick she was to bury it come sunrise.
Cabe comes up beside me and whistles low. “You keep looking at her like that, and she’s gonna notice.”
“Who says I’m looking?”
