Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 136247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Years ago, when he’d spend summers with his grandpa and I’d spend mine with Granny, he delivered the first hint of butterflies I’d ever had for any boy.
This innocent, chaste crush we never dared turn into anything else because I think, deep down, we both appreciated an unlikely friendship too much to risk setting it on fire.
That pesky age gap between us also didn’t help.
Still, I’d been plenty crushed when I returned here for my last summer and found out Quinn wasn’t coming to Dallas. He’d grown up and joined the Army.
Yet here he is, grasping my waist, snapping me back to reality, which sends a gazillion volts through me. Then he lifts me off the fence like I’m lighter than a feather.
“I heard you were home, Tory. Figured we’d bump into each other sooner or later. Didn’t know you were helping Dean with his goat business,” he says, rendering me speechless with another panty-ripping Faulkner smile.
My feet are on the ground.
I think.
He’s released my waist, but I keep an awkward hold on the gate as I slowly turn, needing the stability. Both because that sting in my knee won’t let up and the shock of seeing him again makes it hard to stand.
He’s wearing a black t-shirt that leaves virtually nothing to the imagination when it comes to a rugged mess of biceps, pecs, and abs hot enough to grill on.
A pair of snug-fitting blue jeans and brown cowboy boots rounds out a picture my mind files away to haunt me for another ten years.
“Um, y-yeah, that’s my job...goat helper, extraordinaire.” Swallowing because grown-up Quinn is illegally, deliriously hotter than boy Quinn, I remember how to form words and nod. “I’m being a good niece. Pretending I like this and didn’t get roped in.”
Those lush green eyes of his flash again in the light. Even with the last of the sun disappearing behind the rain clouds, his gaze glows.
Seriously.
No one, man or woman, should have eyes as gorgeous as his. They sparkle like lights on the Vegas strip where it’s always St. Patrick’s Day, rimmed with dark lashes and thick brows which make them stand out even more.
“Damn good to see you again, Tory.” He shakes his head. “How long have you been in town?”
I nod because it’s damn good to see him, too. I’d thought it’d never happen, even if I secretly hoped it might.
Of course, I can’t admit that.
“Just a couple weeks,” I answer. “We all know summer’s the best time to visit these parts. North Dakota winters? Count me out.”
I scrunch up my nose, and he chuckles.
“Aw,” he says, with that twang that’s as appealing as the rest of him. “So this is your first big job.”
I shrug again, and then, because it’s Quinn, I also laugh.
“How’d you guess? Was it watching me get butt-rammed by a goat? Or maybe it was just running around like a hen on fire that gave it all away?”
He throws his head back and laughs, just like he used to so many years ago.
My smile feels magnetic.
“I missed the ass-ramming part. Nice knowing the peach nickname still fits since I guess everybody wants a piece.” His eyes flick to my hips and then away again just as fast.
Oh my God.
If he wanted to make this comfy reunion turn hella awkward, and honestly weirdly sexy all at once...mission accomplished.
I scratch at my face a little too furiously, desperately trying to hide the blush braising my cheeks. Turning my head into a Fotomat has always been his superpower.
“So, what?” I ask softly. “You’ve never seen a goat wrangler girl hanging off a gate before? It’s Dallas, North Dakota, Quinn. We’re like a colder, weirder, tinier version of the other Dallas.”
“Nah, that was a first for this town. Congratulations,” he says with a smile. Then he grabs my hand, pulls me aside, and then checks to make sure the gate is shut before latching it. “C’mon. Let’s make sure those goats are all accounted for before the rain starts up.”
I hear him, but right now, I’m all eyes.
I still can’t peel my gaze off him.
Quinn flipping Faulkner.
If I had a dime for every time I’ve thought about him, I’d be a rich lady.
He points at the edge of a brush cluster, counting the animals. “See there? They’re already taking shelter under those big trees. I’m seeing ten, how about you?”
“There should be a dozen,” I say.
I do a quick headcount—or horn-count, technically, since I’m a sucker for lame puns—and find the other two moving just behind a big tree, already sticking their faces into the brush that isn’t being doused with rain.
“Who’re we missing?” he asks.
“There’s two more behind that big tree. We’re good.”
Quinn nods, satisfied. We start walking and I try to ignore the pain shooting up my leg.
I stumble through it, fairly sure I haven’t reinjured anything. It’s just sore from use and a little more excitement than I needed today. There’s a difference, and I’ve learned to recognize it.