“And your parents’ worst nightmare,” he says. Though I can’t see his face with the way I’m leaning back against him, there’s a smile in his voice. “What did your brother call me? A roughneck who picked you up on the side of the road?”
The memory of Peter’s words and sour face makes me laugh. “All you need are some tattoos and a criminal record and the nightmare will be complete.”
“I got a misdemeanor when I was seventeen, does that count for a criminal record?”
I sit up to look at him, deeply curious. “A misdemeanor? For what?”
“Going double the speed limit. On an empty highway, mind you. Caught by a damn helicopter. Had to work at the feed store all summer to pay off the ticket and court fees.”
“Daryl made you do that?”
“Dad never let us get away with anything. Any mess we got into, we had to pull ourselves out by our own bootstraps. He let Walker sit in the county jail overnight for a dumb prank he and Tanner pulled back in the day.”
I think of the boys I knew growing up, my brother included, who had Daddy smooth away all their problems for them. Legal trouble? No problem, they knew the judge. Or the senator, for that matter.
Double the speed limit, though?
“Maybe you do have a bad boy streak,” I murmur. I poke a finger into his very solid chest. “I hope your speed demon days are behind you, cowboy.”
His gaze is steady on me. “I’m more into taking it slow these days.”
The low, velvet drawl he says it in makes my belly swoop.
“Besides,” he says, “I’ve got a wife to take care of now. Won’t do anything stupid and make a widow out of her.”
A lock of dark hair has fallen into his eyes, and unthinking, I brush it away gently. His eyes track me and he stays very still.
I drop my hand.
I lean back against the couch again, curling my toes without thinking about it, wincing a little at the pain. I’ve got the splint off now, but it’s still sore.
“Ankle?” he says.
“A little stiff. It’s fine.”
He sets his book down. Looks at me.
“Lay down,” he says. “On your belly.”
Chapter 26
Lonely Business
LILA
Aspike of heat and excitement surge through me.
“For what?” I say.
“I’ll massage it for you. Had enough PT. I know what to do. You massaged my shoulder, now it’s my turn.” Slade pats Lucky and tells her, “Go on back to your bed now. Make room for your mama.”
She gives him, and then me, a comically pitiful look, and grumbles off to her extremely cozy dog bed.
“She’s mad at you now,” I say, clucking my tongue. “You’ll have to make that up to her.”
As I roll onto my stomach, Slade kneels beside me. The couch shifts with his weight. “Right now I’m worried about you.”
I’m wearing short silk PJ shorts and Slade’s flannel that I stole from the chair he laid it on. He just looked at me wearing it, but made no comment, so I figured he didn’t mind.
