Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
“Yes, ma’am.” Nixon looked at me with mischief in his eyes, then leaned in to whisper, “I’m popular with that demographic too.”
“That’s my demographic, idiot.”
“I know.” He grinned.
My cheeks flushed with heat.
“Just get the potatoes.” I rolled my eyes, but I smiled the whole time.
* * *
The McClaren Ranch was some of the best acreage around Legacy and boasted a spectacular view of the mountains from the wraparound porch, where I currently sat. The cows were long gone, so ranch was a loose term, but the property still contained a massive house, a large barn, and a machine shed.
It had been on the market for years before Lisa McClaren gave up and turned it into a fully furnished vacation rental. She was one of the ones who never came back after the fire.
I tugged the edges of my blanket closer, then curled my feet under me and sipped my coffee in the rocking chair, looking out over the Rockies. God, I loved being home. There was a settling feeling to it, like my feet found rock after walking on the sand for far too long.
“Damn, it’s cold!” Nixon exclaimed as he came around the corner in a short-sleeved shirt, rubbing his arms. His hair had that purposely messy look I knew took other guys product and effort to achieve, but not Nixon. The guy looked photo-ready straight out of bed.
Half his photo shoots had been straight out of bed, actually.
“September at nine thousand feet isn’t exactly September in Seattle,” I reminded him, ripping my eyes from the sight of his lean hips in those jeans. “We’ll stop by the store and get you a jacket.”
Jesus, I was no better than Naomi when I ogled him like that, and I couldn’t even blame her. She did exactly what I wanted to and made no apology for it.
I could have looked at Nixon for days and never tired of it. Sure, I might have spontaneously combusted from sexual frustration, but it would have been worth it to finally see each of those tattoos up close and personal.
“Let’s do that after breakfast,” he noted. “What, no planner?”
“No plans.” And, to be honest, I wasn’t really sure what to do with myself.
“That’s the best way to live. Relax a little. Sleep in. Binge-watch a TV series.”
“I don’t watch TV.” There was always something that needed to be done, read, or planned.
“Well, you do now. If I have to stay sober, you have to learn how to relax, and this seems like a pretty good time to do it. This place is something else.” He leaned against the porch railing. “I thought you said the entire town burned down, but this place feels pretty old.”
“It’s one of the only properties that didn’t burn,” I said, taking in the thick, heavy beams and stonework. “The fire, the flashfloods that followed that spring…nothing ever touched this place.”
“Huh.” He looked out over the pasture to the steep rise of the mountains. We’d gotten in late last night, so he’d missed the full effect. He studied it like an artist, his eyes skipping from detail to detail, lingering as though he needed to memorize it before moving on. “It’s stunning.”
“It’s home,” I stated simply.
He turned and looked at me with such awe on his face I couldn’t help but smile, even as my heart stuttered. This wasn’t the Nixon I was used to, the one I was well-armored against. I had no defenses when it came to this softer, more accessible side of him, and worse, I wanted to keep that look on his face. He needed this break way more than I did. I wanted to show him life outside the three-ring circus of the music industry, even though I knew it was my job to shove a guitar into his hands and point him to pen and paper.
“Show me,” he said, his voice low and gravelly.
“What?” I stopped rocking. Had he read my mind?
“Show me your home.” He shoved his hands into his pockets.
I worried my bottom lip with my teeth and mentally ran through the list of ways he could get into trouble here. There weren’t actually that many, especially on a Saturday morning.
“Come on, Shannon. What could possibly go wrong?”
If he kept looking at me with that little smolder of his, a whole hell of a lot could go wrong, and we wouldn’t even have to leave the ranch. Not that he had any interest in me. I wasn’t that stupid. Nixon liked his girls tall, lean, and entanglement free, and I was none of those things. I also wasn’t looking to throw my career and self-respect away in pursuit of a few orgasms.
“How do you feel about pancakes?” I asked slowly.
He grinned.
Forget Nixon, I was the one in trouble.
5
NIXON
“Here you go, sweetie,” a waitress with pink hair said as she slid my orange juice across the counter.