Read Online Going Cowboy Crazy by Katie Lane - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Katie Lane
Ads: Link
“Don’t go anywhere, darlin’. I’ll be right back.”
Once he was gone, Faith scrambled off the bed and headed for the tiny bathroom. The room was smaller than an airplane’s and twice as cluttered. The edge of the sink was crammed with a can of shaving cream, a razor, a bar of Dial soap, a cup with a toothbrush and toothpaste, a bottle of Tums, a bottle of aspirin, and a half-empty bottle of Pepto-Bismol. There were rolls of toilet paper stacked on the back of the toilet and at least three towels stuffed on the rack. Towels that looked like they belonged in the garage.
Of course, Slate didn’t have a garage. Or a carport. Or even a driveway.
Slate had a dirt lot.
And on the dirt lot, he had a trailer. Not a double-wide, more of a twin-wide that wasn’t much bigger than a motor home without the motor. It did have tires. Last night, she’d counted at least two on the roof. It also had two bedrooms, although the other one was filled with boxes, fishing equipment, and more guns.
She used the toilet she’d cleaned with her disinfectant wipes the night before—along with the sink, floor, and doorknob—then washed her hands. On the second lather, she glanced at her reflection in the tiny mirror and groaned at her bedraggled appearance. In the sunlight that poured through a large hole beneath the shower window, she looked like something a cat would refuse to drag in. Of course, there was no help for it now. All her hairstyling products and makeup were locked in the trunk of her car.
She grabbed the toothpaste and squirted some out on her finger. She still couldn’t understand how a sheriff could get away with towing a car without a sobriety test, but she figured small towns were different from big cities. Besides, the man had probably done her a favor. If a cop had stopped her on the highway, not only would her car have been towed, but she probably would’ve spent the night in jail.
Instead of with a red-hot redneck.
Not that she ever got the chance to see how hot her redneck was. But regret was something she’d have to live with. Her life was complicated enough without adding a man to the mix. A man who belonged in her world about as much as she belonged in his. No, the sooner she got her car and got out of there, the better. Every second she stayed with the man, self-restraint seemed more and more overrated.
Especially when she pulled open the door to Slate’s bare chest. She took a step back until her legs came in contact with the cool plastic of the toilet.
With his hands on either side of the door frame, he leaned in and brushed a kiss over her lips. “Mmmm, minty fresh.”
Closing her eyes to block out the steamy image of bulging biceps and smooth, hard chest, she tried to sound like a tough, determined woman instead of the quivering, needy wimp she was. “I need to go.”
Slate’s breath ruffled the hair on her forehead. “Later.” He kissed her again, but with sheer determination, she held her lips firm. After a few seconds of some very skillful attempts to get them open, he pulled back and heaved a sigh.
“Fine. I’ll see if I can find your damned car.” Slate picked her up and set her out of the way.
“Find my car? What do you mean, find my car? I thought you said the sheriff had impounded it because I had too much to drink.”
“That’s right.” He leaned over to turn on the shower, his tight buns flexing beneath the soft denim. “But Sheriff Winslow is an absentminded old guy and sometimes he forgets where he puts things.”
“Forgets where he puts things? A car?”
“Cars. Trucks. You name it.” Slate glanced over his shoulder. “You mind closing the door, honey? I don’t want to catch a draft.”
She wanted to point out that the draft wasn’t coming from the open door as much as the hole in the wall, but she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He couldn’t help it if the economics of the town were so bad that their football coach’s income was below poverty
Once he was gone, Faith scrambled off the bed and headed for the tiny bathroom. The room was smaller than an airplane’s and twice as cluttered. The edge of the sink was crammed with a can of shaving cream, a razor, a bar of Dial soap, a cup with a toothbrush and toothpaste, a bottle of Tums, a bottle of aspirin, and a half-empty bottle of Pepto-Bismol. There were rolls of toilet paper stacked on the back of the toilet and at least three towels stuffed on the rack. Towels that looked like they belonged in the garage.
Of course, Slate didn’t have a garage. Or a carport. Or even a driveway.
Slate had a dirt lot.
And on the dirt lot, he had a trailer. Not a double-wide, more of a twin-wide that wasn’t much bigger than a motor home without the motor. It did have tires. Last night, she’d counted at least two on the roof. It also had two bedrooms, although the other one was filled with boxes, fishing equipment, and more guns.
She used the toilet she’d cleaned with her disinfectant wipes the night before—along with the sink, floor, and doorknob—then washed her hands. On the second lather, she glanced at her reflection in the tiny mirror and groaned at her bedraggled appearance. In the sunlight that poured through a large hole beneath the shower window, she looked like something a cat would refuse to drag in. Of course, there was no help for it now. All her hairstyling products and makeup were locked in the trunk of her car.
She grabbed the toothpaste and squirted some out on her finger. She still couldn’t understand how a sheriff could get away with towing a car without a sobriety test, but she figured small towns were different from big cities. Besides, the man had probably done her a favor. If a cop had stopped her on the highway, not only would her car have been towed, but she probably would’ve spent the night in jail.
Instead of with a red-hot redneck.
Not that she ever got the chance to see how hot her redneck was. But regret was something she’d have to live with. Her life was complicated enough without adding a man to the mix. A man who belonged in her world about as much as she belonged in his. No, the sooner she got her car and got out of there, the better. Every second she stayed with the man, self-restraint seemed more and more overrated.
Especially when she pulled open the door to Slate’s bare chest. She took a step back until her legs came in contact with the cool plastic of the toilet.
With his hands on either side of the door frame, he leaned in and brushed a kiss over her lips. “Mmmm, minty fresh.”
Closing her eyes to block out the steamy image of bulging biceps and smooth, hard chest, she tried to sound like a tough, determined woman instead of the quivering, needy wimp she was. “I need to go.”
Slate’s breath ruffled the hair on her forehead. “Later.” He kissed her again, but with sheer determination, she held her lips firm. After a few seconds of some very skillful attempts to get them open, he pulled back and heaved a sigh.
“Fine. I’ll see if I can find your damned car.” Slate picked her up and set her out of the way.
“Find my car? What do you mean, find my car? I thought you said the sheriff had impounded it because I had too much to drink.”
“That’s right.” He leaned over to turn on the shower, his tight buns flexing beneath the soft denim. “But Sheriff Winslow is an absentminded old guy and sometimes he forgets where he puts things.”
“Forgets where he puts things? A car?”
“Cars. Trucks. You name it.” Slate glanced over his shoulder. “You mind closing the door, honey? I don’t want to catch a draft.”
She wanted to point out that the draft wasn’t coming from the open door as much as the hole in the wall, but she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He couldn’t help it if the economics of the town were so bad that their football coach’s income was below poverty
Similar Books
