Page 3 of Kicking Up Dust

And Stephanie and Chelsey, of course.

They were horrific influences. After tonight, I don’t think I’ll ever talk to them again. Or rather, after tomorrow, because we have a bit of a drive back to campus and spending it in silence would be awkward.

But in truth, I wasn’t even tipsy anymore, much less drunk.

And I wasn’t ovulating to the best of my knowledge, though my cycle had always been sort of hard to track.

And the girls had really just been trying to help. Despite it being Stephanie’s birthday celebration, they’d encouraged me to ditch them for a ride on the tattooed bull rider with the dimples. Chelsey subtly hinted that a good roll in the hay may be just the thing to make me forget about the crappy grade I’d gotten on my Marketing Analytics paper.

Doubtful.

Regardless, our trip to the boy zoo had transformed into a solo trip to an incredibly messy motel room.

“I’m sorry,” Colt says, bending down to snatch several pieces of clothes off the floor and toss them in a corner. “I left in a rush earlier.”

He has more clothes than I do, I think. Though that wasn’t really hard to accomplish. I was bad about just donating half of my belongings every time I moved.

“Have you been staying here long? I thought you rodeo guys… toured.”

Colt’s lips quirk as he looks up, pushing his curls off of his forehead. “We do. Got here Thursday. Head out on Monday.”

It’s Saturday. This much mess in just three days is surprising, but I have a feeling this is one of those things that’s only shocking to me because I grew up living out of suitcases and not letting myself get comfortable in one place for too long, so I just purse my lips and nod.

His grin only grows. “Clean freak?”

“Something like that.”

“A bull rider’s probably not your best option for a one-night stand then, darlin’,” he quips, walking closer.

He’s right, of course, but not for the reasons he’s thinking. I’m not really a clean freak, but a tattooed, dimpled playboy of a man isn’t my typical type either. His cockiness reminds me too much of a boy who lived in one of the many foster homes I’d passed through. I try not to ever think about Kyle, so sleeping with a man that reminds me of him probably isn’t the best idea.

I’ve decided we’re going to blame it on his dimples.

“What’s got your head running a mile a minute?” he asks quietly, finally close enough to push a strand of my hair behind my ear.

“I don’t usually do this,” I blurt out and then bite my lip to keep the words inside way too late.

His brow rises. “Judge a man for the cleanliness of his motel room?”

“No,” I huff, rolling my eyes. “This,” I say, gesturing around the room as though that will give him any clarity. “Sleeping with random men. I usually at least know the guy first.”

“Okay… Just to be clear, though, I wouldn’t judge you if you did. I definitely sleep around. And I rarely know the person first.”

It’s my turn to raise a brow, surprised he’d admitted that. Didn’t most men lie about that sort of thing? Didn’t they usually try to make the girl they want to sleep with feel special and unique so they could talk her out of her clothes?

“Do you want to do this, Blair? No hard feelings if you don’t. You can still crash here or I can take you back to your friends.”

The floor is an awfully interesting thing to look at all of a sudden.

“I do.”

“Then what’s the problem, pretty girl?”

His hands frame my face and tilt my head up until my eyes are on his. I have never once felt that melty feeling I’ve read about in romance novels when looking at a man, but my stomach flips as I stare into his brown eyes. His hands are massive against my cheeks, and I try very hard not to dwell on that too much.

“Nothing,” I say quietly. “I just wanted you to know. And I’m on birth control, but I’d still prefer that you wear a condom, please. I’m all good though, I swear. I can show you my last test results on my phone.”

Colt thumbs my bottom lip again.