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“A man could be convinced for the right woman,” I growl.
She turns to face me, leaning her back against the windowsill, just watching with that same strange look.
She’s not dressed down for labor today. Her button-down shirt seems a little nicer, a pretty white thing with translucent sleeves that let the velvety tone of her skin shine through. Plus a pair of cutoffs that actually cover more than an inch of her thighs, the ends cuffed.
Her hair’s been brushed so it pours over one shoulder, shimmering like captured sunlight.
Sweet hell, I can’t stop myself from drinking her in, even if I’m being Captain Obvious.
Whatever her mood, whatever her worries, whatever her hate, this girl knots me right the fuck up.
She’s asking for something, too, with those bright-blue eyes.
Then she shakes her head.
“Maybe you’re not the one who needs to repent this time,” she says, leaning forward and snagging the six-pack out of my hands. “But I can’t have this conversation without a beer.”
9
Rein It In (Libby)
I can’t believe I’m actually thankful for Holt damn Silverton.
Now I can’t believe I’m about to tell him the truth. But I’ve got to, before this gets even more out of hand.
It’s bad enough that now Declan and Sierra know there’s something down Nowhere Lane.
I’d wanted to just tell Sierra, alone.
Try to trust her as my sister, make her understand why we can’t let the land go and what it could do to Dad’s legacy.
I was hoping we could come together as a family one more time.
When she showed up with that oily, smarmy ogre, I flipping lost it.
Said things I shouldn’t have.
If I don’t come clean with Holt, then it’s only gonna keep getting worse.
We sit out on the back patio, watching clouds billow across the blue sky in little white puffs. Up there, it’s cooler, and down here it’s just heat and dead air and sweat dripping down my neck.
Makes the beer taste extra good, at least.
Another reason to thank him.
After struggling for words, I say, “This whole mess put me between a rock and a hard place, Holt.”
He glances over. He’s slouched in one of the deck chairs and looking infuriatingly fine in it—those jeans make his thighs look lean and hard, muscular and perfect.
They pull, riding low on his hips.
His belt draws attention to a place I wish it didn’t.
Damn those translucent A-shirts, too.
It’s like his uniform now, ever since he dropped the city suits.
Plaid shirts unbuttoned over those obscenely tight A-shirts that don’t hide a lick of him. Somehow, it’s worse than being naked.
Especially when his gold eyes drift to mine. He can probably tell I’m not looking at his face.
Can’t blame a girl for needing the distraction.
My life, Dad’s memory, my home…
It’s all falling down around my ears.
Holt frowns. “What’d Declan say about antiques?”
“I don’t know.” I shake my head, pressing my lips to the rim of my beer can, letting the cold soak in. “I was thinking about the body. I didn’t tell them, though. Not with Declan right there. So I said I thought there might be valuables. Heck, maybe there are. What do I know? Never spent enough time in that creepy place to see.”
“Yeah. Something’s off about that dude, if you ask me.” Holt’s hardly touched his beer, leaving it sitting on the patio table between us. It drips condensation on the frosted glass; he runs his fingertip around the metal rim, tracing slowly with the pad. “But why’s that leave you stuck?”
“Because you said you were gonna file for protected status,” I point out. “And now I have to, before they pull a legal gun against me to stop it. It’s gotta go through quick or they’ll block it, won’t they?”
He winces. “Me and my big damn mouth. I’ll see what I can do to push a request through the council ASAP.”
Oh, crap.
Trouble is, that isn’t really the problem.
I’ve gotta spit it out.
I want to believe things won’t go south.
I’ve got to believe Holt won’t do anything that would hurt me.
That beautiful idiot is practically giving up a small fortune to save my ranch.
That’s worth trusting him again, ain’t it?
I take a deep breath, nerve myself up.
Say it.
Say. It. Libby.
“You can’t,” I say, my tongue practically numb. “Because I think my dad killed Bostrom out in the ghost town.”
Holt sucks in a breath, just staring at me. “Dr. Potter? Bullshit, he was such a—”
“I know,” I say. “I know. He was like…like Einstein and Bill Nye had a weird love child. I know. I can’t see him harming a fly—he never did growing up—but still…” I hate that stinging in my eyes, shaking my head. “He told me he did it, Holt. He confessed.”
“Fuck. Oh, fuck.” Holt slides a thick hand over his face, his gaze drifting away from me across the fields. “When? How?”
