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“I don’t like surprises.” That was an understatement.
“But you won’t throw me out.”
Her voice wasn’t waveri
ng now. She wasn’t blushing now. She was meeting his eyes directly. Like she knew him.
And she did.
Because no, he wouldn’t throw her out. Or, more accurately, he couldn’t.
Not because he was a cop and his job was to serve and protect. Not because he was a nice guy—definitely not that. But because he was a selfish ass who wanted her more than he wanted his sanity.
Apparently.
He turned and pressed her back against the door and moved in until he could feel the length of her body against his.
“Say no if you’re going to say no,” he said gruffly.
Her breath caught, her pupils dilated and her lips parted.
“Lace. This is your last chance.”
But she didn’t say no.
She didn’t say yes.
What she said was much, much worse.
“Please, Carter.”
*buy*
Going Long - Cari Quinn
Book 1 - Boys of Fall
Prologue
The road stretched ahead of Wade Bennett, winding up into the mountains of Truxton, Tennessee. Endless miles of land surrounded him, offset by the bucolic farms tucked into the forest. Trees rose up around him like sheltering angels that dripped shade onto the sunbaked earth, offering snatches of respite from the sweltering heat.
He tipped back his coffee mug and took a long sip. June in the south meant sweet tea, and lots of it. It also meant sticking his elbow out the window and soaking up the summer breeze that barely cooled the sweat clinging to his skin.
Behind the wheel of his beat-up old pickup was his favorite place to be. With his dog Melody’s head in his lap and the radio blasting country music, he couldn’t think of one other spot on God’s green earth more perfect or right for him.
Well, just one. But that was more about the people than the place.
He took a curve too fast, spitting up gravel on the shoulder of the road as he passed the Gruber farm. Clothes flapped on the line next to their charmingly rustic barn, a pretty usual sight in this part of the area. Wade had grown up in Quinn, Texas, a small town where football was king and ranching ran herd on many other occupations, so he felt more than comfortable here. It was in the rhinestone glitz and glamour of Nashville that he felt like an outsider in his scuffed cowboy boots, faded jeans and worn-thin T-shirts.
He’d stopped wearing a cowboy hat when his record company had decided to turn him into country radio’s version of a Backstreet Boy. Then they’d told him to lose the hat and the twang and the songs that made him who he was in favor of pop shit.
Not that there was anything wrong with pop. It just wasn’t him. He might’ve stashed his black Stetson in his truck—though it was on his head right now—but that didn’t mean he’d changed who he was at the root.
Back home, most of his friends hadn’t worn cowboy hats. Some had worn boots, some hadn’t. Most had helped their families work the land, but some had avoided the backbreaking parts by pitching the old rawhide every Friday night under the hot lights. “Gotta save the arm” had been Wade’s older brother Colton’s excuse. He’d done his share around the farm and Coach’s ranch, but he’d always managed to disappear when it came to mucking out stalls or milking Bessie. No self-respecting golden boy like Colt wanted to get caught with his head between a cow’s legs.
His cell beeped in the ashtray and he sighed. Whoever it was, he didn’t want to talk. It might be the waitress he’d hooked up with a couple of months ago. Linda was a sweet girl, but he wasn’t anyone’s bargain right now for love or anything else.
The other possibilities were record company execs or his manager, and neither was appealing. Stanley thought Wade needed to meet some new songwriters and producers to infuse his music with something edgier. More hip. Basically he was spewing Alliance Records’ BS version 2.0.
