Page 7 of Drifter’s Heart

If he didn’t have a multitude of mountains back behind those fields of his, then he’d never keep Lanie. And wolves, of course. My girl is addicted to the things. And the place where he keeps that stupid bull everyone who loves him hates with a passion.

I wonder what West is addicted to.

But we’re talking about his compliments, not mine. “No need to fish.” I wiggle my butt, not caring if he looks or not. Yep, that’s what we’re going with tonight. Nope, I totally do not care. “Unless you’re in a fishing mood.”

That makes no sense, but the vodka shots I imbibed earlier also do not care.

“Uh-uh.”

I’m bratting out on him and we both know it. My drunk-chaotic sass earns me another sideways glance from West. If I keep this up, I can claim a special award for the night. A burst of giggles escapes me at the thought, the sound unrelated to anything inside my head.

“Jesus,” West mutters, gripping my elbow hard. “My truck’s this way, beautiful.”

“Not beautiful. I’m the knight.” My synapses connect to our prior conversation. I throw a proud thumb at my puffed-up chest and miss.

“And here’s your noble steed, my good sir.” West doesn’t miss a beat, hauling the door to his black truck open. He catches my waist to boost me up when my heel slips on the sidestep.

“I hate being a duck. Hate being tipsy,” I grumble as he straps me in.

“Who’s a duck?”

“Short. I’m short. Duck butts are close to the ground.” My explanation ends as warm, rough hands graze my bare tummy where my top rides up. A row of sparks ignites across my skin. I blink up at him, unable to break my train of thought despite the pleasure receptors going off at the same time.

“You don’t look like a duck to me. Let’s get you home. But be fully aware that I’m charging you if Sir Ducksworth pukes in the front seat of my truck.” West walks around his dual-cab truck, tapping his knuckles on the bull bar. He swings himself up into the driver’s seat while I’m still trying to work out if and when I actually agreed to this gig.

“Were you just nice to me?” I ask suspiciously as the city whizzes by. “On purpose?”

West huffs at me. “Do you think the world is against you, Winnifred Rand?”

A growl builds in my chest. “I’m a Hamilton.” Internally I wince. Brad’s name has been thrown about too many times tonight already. I hate invoking the beast more often than required in case he actually appears, regardless of what I said earlier about calling him in for babysitting duties.

So I lied.

“You keep telling yourself that, beautiful.”

“Not beautiful.”

The truck swerves sharply. I nearly lose my dinner from hours before.

“Whoa. Are you trying to kill me?” I fold my arms and face West.

His heavyset profile is thrown into sharp relief beneath the streetlights I recognize. “We’re here.”

“Fine. Thank you for the ride and saving me from walking twelve blocks. There. That’s what you wanted, right?”

The faintest smile curls the corners of his lips. “Is that the old argument with the ex? A ‘Yes’ woman. Was that what Brad needed, Winnie?”

My eyes roll without my permission. There we go, invoking the ex. Again. I should get a counter. But I don’t stop the action either. “Whatever, cowboy. You live your glorified, dirty, anti–city slicker life. I’ll live mine. Separately. All right?”

“Yes, ma’am. Your destination.” West yanks up the handbrake with more force than is required, and his truck—far from a beater—groans its protest.

Suddenly I miss his knight in shining armor act. Whichever way that heads.

“So is this a full-service end of date?” I bat my lashes at him and tip my head back.

West snorts. “Is that what you called a date, Rand? Letting a—” He clears his throat. “Letting that man-child throw his used shirt at you from a stage?”

I flush, straightening as I whip off my seat belt and face him in full. “That man is a musician as well as a healthcare provider. He works twelve-hour shifts at a minimum, then offers out talent that you couldn’t find with your little toe.”