Page 9 of Tempt Her

And what should I trust?

The glint of lust across Ford’s eyes at the idea of me serving him.

Or the snake wrapped around Gentry’s pupils, deciding if he should strike?

Desire or doom? I don’t know what’s next as Ford steels his stare, and Gentry turns back.

But when Luke dares to look at me again, letting the older guys hash out their terms like a pissing contest, he grins. It’s cute and cocky, mixing with care and confidence, lifting the corner of his sweet lips, and maybe… maybe at least one man… can be my hope.

CHAPTERTHREE

Some days you wake up in the same place but feel so lost.

Those three hot men will be here any minute, but I can’t muster an ounce of give-a-shit.

I didn’t get to see my dad today; the worry makes me sick. Though I called Ms. Carver, his favorite nurse, who said he’s fine—I could hear the tension in her voice.

He’s not fine.

Gentry brought me straight home after breakfast with Shane Turner, where yes, grits and my tits were enjoyed by Senator Turner.

The man is sweet, actually, and I like his wife, Liz.

But in the low neckline of a Lily Pulitzer dress, there’s no avoiding my ample cleavage. Even with my hands politely folded in my lap, the dress served it up like Gentry’s favorite meal for all guests to see.

And don’t get me started on theickfactor that his mom wears the same label. It’s the only one Gentry lets me buy.

He was especially cruel last night. Instead of the golf club, he went for my tits like he knew how breakfast would go today. Making me wear the triple strand of pearls his mother gave to me as a wedding present; the sick symbolism wasn’t lost on me as he added his own pearl necklace for me to wear.

My god, he makes me retch.

“You think you’re in charge?” He squeezed my breasts together so hard it hurt. “You think you ownthishouse?” His skinny hips pumped harder, and I was relieved. It was almost over. “No, I own you, you whore. You bitch, these aremyfucking tits.”

No, they’re not.

I was born with them.

I got breasts before all the other girls, which only pushed my friends away because I also got unwanted attention from the boys.

It was soul-crushing. That same year my mom died. And years later, when I realized there was no way my dad could afford to send me to college, I got desperate.

Medical bills kept us poor, though I wanted to honor one of my mom’s dying wishes.

“Take care of your dad,” she told me from her hospital bed. Dialysis wasn’t working anymore. Her body was rejecting her second kidney transplant. “And take care of yourself, too.” She squeezed my hand. “Promise me; you’ll graduate from college.”

At least we got to say goodbye. At least she knew my name until the end.

So I honored her. When a sweet woman in line behind me at Walmart told me that I could be a beauty queen, I listened like she was an angel sent by my mom.

A couple of years later, I won Miss Bluffton. Then I won Miss South Carolina, making it into the top ten in the Miss America pageant later that year.

But by then, I didn’t care. I had bigger problems than cellulite, the cost of my evening gown, or remembering how to play the “Cluck Old Hen” song on the fiddle my dad taught me to play.

Because he couldn’t remember where he was the night of the pageant, getting angry and confused in our hotel room in Las Vegas.

The next day, through my tears at slowly losing my father, not a stupid pageant, Gentry Evans proposed to me.

I still don’t know if he did it out of pity or with a plan. But in my weakest moment, I thought Gentry would take care of my dad and me.

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