Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 114263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Mollie reaches up, her shirt lifting to reveal a tanned slice of stomach and side. That’s when I see the words, embroidered in sequins because of course, on the front of her shirt: I AM A LUXURY.
I don’t wanna smile, but I do. Shirt’s ridiculous, but I’m starting to wonder if that’s the point when it comes to Mollie’s clothes.
“I don’t see the hot sauce,” Mollie says.
Patsy straightens. “We must’ve run out again. There’s a few more bottles on the top shelf there, I think. Here, I’ll get the step stool…”
I open the door. “I got it.”
The women whip around at the sound of my voice.
Mollie’s hand immediately flies to her glasses. “Jesus, Cash.”
“Good mornin’ to you too.”
“Shoulda known you were coming. Always the first up.” Patsy crosses the kitchen to press a kiss to my cheek. “Sleep okay?”
“Not really. You?”
“I did all right.”
I head for the range. Mollie moves out of the way, her hand still on her glasses. She embarrassed about them?
“How many bottles of hot sauce do you want?” I ask.
Mollie clears her throat. She’s barefoot, and I tower over her.
“Just one.”
I grab a bottle of Texas Pete and hold it out to her.
She looks at it. Looks up at me. “Thanks.”
“Want me to open it?”
“I got it.” She takes the bottle.
“Smells good. Whatcha making?”
Mollie peels off the green plastic sleeve that covers the bottle cap. “Egg white omelets. I’d offer you one, but you’re kind of a dick, so no.”
Laughter rumbles in my chest. “I was a dick the other day. I’m sorry.”
“You should be.”
“Y’all need a minute?” Patsy asks.
“No,” Mollie replies.
I smile at Patsy. “That’d be great, Patsy, thank you.”
“I’ll be in the pantry. Holler if you need me.”
Mollie twists the cap off the Texas Pete. Tries to, anyway.
“You always up this early?” I ask.
She doesn’t look up when she replies, “Sometimes, when I have a lot to do.”
I nod at the Texas Pete. “Can I help you with that?”
“No.”
“I really am sorry.”
“I really don’t care.”
“Let me make it up to you.”
She grits her teeth, twisting the cap. “I’d rather you not.”
“We had a new foal hit the ground last week. Ella’s preschool class is coming to the ranch to see it today. The baby goats, too.”
That gets Mollie’s attention. She looks at me. “Y’all have baby goats?”
“Of course we have baby goats. They eat the stuff on the ground cows won’t, so we use the pastures more efficiently. Sally’s also got a side gig, making goat cheese.”
“Freaking yum.”
“It’s delicious. Can I count you in? Ella seemed to take a shine to you the other day.”
Mollie looks back down at the hot sauce, twisting the cap so hard her knuckles turn white. “Maybe. If I have time.”
“I hope you do. Jesus, Mollie, give me that.” I grab the bottle and crack it open. “See? Easier when you let people help you.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Why do I get the feeling you need to take your own advice?”
“That’s my business. Speaking of business, you said you had a lot to do today.”
“Goody is coming over to walk me through a bunch of nuts-and-bolts stuff this morning. I have a few calls to make for Bellamy Brooks after that.”
“Bellamy Brooks?”
“My company.”
“Ah. Right.” I make a mental note to Google the name. Wonder if they have a website?
“Patsy!” Mollie turns off the burner. “Omelets are ready.”
I put a hand on the counter. “We’re meeting at ten o’clock at the barn. I hope to see you there.”
“I hope you get bitten by a snake.”
“Well!” Patsy claps her hands. “That seemed to go…well.”
Mollie scoops an omelet onto a plate and shakes a couple of dashes of Texas Pete onto it. She holds out the plate. “Patsy, you’re a saint for not poisoning him.”
“Aw, he’s a good man underneath all that gruffness.” Patsy eyes me. “Although I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted to knock some sense into that thick skull of his sometimes.”
I shrug. “I’ve been knocked around plenty. Three concussions. Three that were diagnosed, anyway.”
“Really?” Mollie scrunches her brow. “Occupational hazard?”
Patsy laughs. “Two of them were. The third he got when he fell on a dance floor, trying to do the Cotton Eye Joe.”
Mollie blinks. “You dance?”
“Used to, until the concussion.” I lean my backside against the counter and cross my arms. I don’t miss the way Mollie’s eyes flick over my torso, stopping to linger on my forearms. “Made a rookie mistake and wore new boots to The Rattler. Hadn’t scuffed up the soles enough to get traction.”
Patsy’s face lights up. “Oh! Speaking of The Rattler! We’re playing there tomorrow night. Mollie, you have to come. We’re pretty darn awesome, if I do say so myself.”
“You’re playing?” Mollie scrunches her brow. “Are you a guitarist or…”
“Patsy and Sally are in a band called Frisky Whiskey,” I explain. “And they are really, really good.”