Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 84829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
I hadn’t heard her walk into the office, too busy inspecting the finger in question. The one looking worse by the hour. I turned away from the coffee pot I was about to reach for and held up my left hand. By the looks of it, if I didn’t get the godforsaken thing off soon, I’d have to have it surgically removed.
“Don’t just stand there, Laurel, help me get this off.”
She gave me a brisk nod. “Hold on, I got this.” A minute later she returned with a big jar of Vaseline, slathered a glob of it on my finger, and twisted the ring back and forth until it slipped off.
“I don’t wanna know why you have a tub of that in your desk drawer but thank you.” Flexing my hand, I groaned in relief. “You’re an angel.”
“Remember that when I ask for a raise,” she shot back.
Grabbing the coffee pot, she poured two cups and studied me critically while she drank hers. I didn’t like it.
“So…how’d it go?”
“I’m married,” I told her, adding a shrug while I wiped the excess Vaseline away with a paper towel. I couldn’t muster even the slightest bit of fake enthusiasm. “It went.”
“When do I get to meet her?”
Best I could do was a noncommittal grunt. I didn’t want Sydney involved in my life any more than she already was which was too damn much already. As if on cue, the woman who wore my ring waltzed through the door of the offices of the Lazy S wearing a pair of running tights––black this time––and a matching fleece that she must’ve bought in Vegas because it had the Wynn logo over her heart.
She turned her head, ponytail bouncing, and smiled when she saw me. It was immediate and reached her eyes, making her look about ten years younger and the opposite of the uptight bitch I kept mentally accusing her of being. That tentative smile punched me in the chest. Which naturally made my face look like I’d eaten bad shellfish.
“Good morning,” she said, addressing both of us.
“You must be Sydney,” Laurel exclaimed in a chirpy voice and left me in the dust to shake my new wife’s hand. She never sounded chirpy when she spoke to me. I made a mental note to speak to Laurel about an attitude adjustment.
Crossing the room, I sat at my desk, and from behind the screen of my desktop, studied Sydney as she shook Laurel’s hand. Shit. My wife was beautiful I belatedly realized. Karma was laughing in my face and screwing with my best-laid plans.
I’d checked in on her when I snuck out at four in the morning. Buried under three blankets, she was sound asleep on the inflatable mattress on the floor with the dogs surrounding her like two parentheses. I’d been around women like her all my life. Rich, pampered, used to getting what they wanted at all costs. And I was certain the ice princess would’ve had her small bag packed, sprinting to the hotel by now. Or even better, back to New York. And yet here she was in my office, invading my space, unbothered by it all.
The two women smiled at each other as they talked. Then Sydney turned sideways, and I nearly swallowed my tongue. Skin. I could see skin. A transparent stripe of material ran up the sides of her tights.
Chrissake, had the guys seen this?
As a general rule they missed nothing where a woman was concerned, especially a beautiful one walking around the property in see-through leggings. If she was going to spend time here, I couldn’t have her running around distracting my men with revealing clothing. Ranching was dangerous work. Someone could get killed if their attention lapsed because of a pair of long sexy legs and a blue-ribbon ass.
My dick stirred and I bit back the urge to swear out loud.
“What is that?” a regressive Y chromosome impelled me to say out loud. Both women turned to look at me. Laurel glared while Sydney’s forehead wrinkled, my tone clearly knocking the poise out of her. Sadly, only for a brief moment. A beat later she shook off the confusion and leveled a flat stare on me.
“What are you wearing?” I clarified.
“Leggings…and a fleece,” she said, annunciating it slowly––like she considered me an idiot.
“Your pants are see-through. I can see skin. You can’t wear those here.” My jeans were growing increasingly uncomfortable.
“That’s New York fashion, Scott,” Laurel cut in, having appointed herself my wife’s attorney less than a minute after meeting her. “Or have you forgotten already?” Then, turning to Sydney. “Those are real cute.”
“I could bring you a pair when I get back from the city,” my wife offered with a smile. I didn’t like it.
“Oh no, sweetie. You gotta have long legs to wear those and I’m barely five feet.”