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She doesn’t answer, and I tilt my head, looking upstairs where I can just make out hints of motion.
“Libby? You want your stables cleaned so bad, I can make myself useful around h—”
Her head appears over the railing—and a few other tempting glimpses.
Tumbling golden hair falls down over the edge, lacy bra straps, hints of bare flesh through the latticed wood.
But it’s her smile that fucking does me in.
Wicked, wild, bright, and sinful.
“Holt?” she says sweetly.
“Yeah?”
“You just asked me out on a date. In case you didn’t notice, my answer’s yes. So go get in the shower and make yourself presentable. We’ll talk about putting you to work tomorrow.”
Laughing helplessly, I stand and snap off a proper Air Force salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
But from the way she’s looking at me?
Goddamn.
Is it wrong to hope she’ll be putting me to work tonight?
I wasn’t lying when I told her it’s been a while.
My dick is so blue I think I’m part Smurf, and I might plow her clean through the wall if she gives me half a chance.
Ever since the shitshow that killed my career in New York, I’ve behaved. I’ve held back.
But where Liberty Potter’s concerned?
I’m fucking starved.
And tonight, she looks like dinner.
* * *
Delectable can’t even describe Libby when she comes downstairs.
I’ve cleaned myself up a bit, trading work boots and worn jeans for a pair of my nicer designer denim and a pair of square-toed boots with a buckling strap.
The boots are another expensive, showy gimmick I’ve kept from my New York days, but tonight they work with the clean, pressed black button-down I’ve swapped with my flannels.
I must pass muster because her eyes glint with approval as she flits down the steps, looking like a goddamn dream.
She’s wearing a peasant dress, off the shoulder with a ruffled bodice. It’s this pretty semi-translucent fabric that’s off-white with subtle patterning in tiny red dots and stripes.
The chest bells hang loose, offering suggestions of her sweet curves in ripples and a flared skirt.
She’s wearing sandals like a flower child, cork soles with lace-up pink ribbons that crisscross her ankles. Draws me right in to the deep golden tan of her skin.
For now, just a sexy tease, but dammit, those tan lines on her chest are still there, peeking above the bodice’s trim.
She’s gorgeous.
Especially with her hair brushed into a golden tumble, pouring over one shoulder, calling like a siren in every movement.
Her lips curl into a smile that’s both shy and defiant as she stops halfway down the stairs with one hand resting against the railing.
I’ve never met a woman who hollows me out with a glance.
No bull, no coy mannerisms, no quiet games.
When she fucks with me, I know it up front.
Libby doesn’t play at being anything but herself.
Turns out, real is damn hot on a woman.
“Well?” she teases, arching an eyebrow, her eyes glimmering like wicked twilight. “You just gonna stare at me all night, or tell me I look nice?”
“Thought this look told you plenty.” I grin, offering up my arm. “You look a lot better than nice, woman. You could wake the dead. Prettiest cowgirl in Montana.”
“You could’ve stopped with ‘better than nice,’ but I’ll accept the flattery.” She descends the last few steps lightly and slips her arm into mine, her hand resting against my forearm.
She leans against me.
Just a little bit, but enough to make it feel like I’m walking on air.
“You found your balance between small town and big city, I see,” she says, casting me a sidelong glance. “I suppose I’ll let you escort me.”
“You’re too good to me.”
I can’t stop smiling at her shit. It’s practically hurting my face.
Fuck, I haven’t felt this giddy with a woman on my arm since…ever.
Don’t know how to explain the difference. This feels purer than the easy conquests that came with winning over high-class women with rich families and born power.
There’d been real desire sometimes, sure.
Maybe that’s it.
This is something more than dumb desire.
Something so much more it makes me freak to put a name on it.
It’s a little scary how something this powerful could grow so fast with this pint-sized powerhouse of sass and determination.
“C’mon,” I say, giving her a little tug. “The party’s going to start without us.”
She laughs, and I lead her outside to my truck—where she stops, staring.
“Oh, wow. You went full country, huh? Dropped the Benz for this?”
“These trucks never die. Great for construction.” I thump the hood, then hoist her up into the passenger seat. “Besides, who’ll take me seriously driving around this town in a Benz?”
She pulls a comically straight face. “You could have tea with Mr. Cherish.”
“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.”
She just laughs her head off while I climb in and take the wheel.
We don’t say anything else as we drive out under the stars, the night lit up as bright as I feel inside.
