Used (Unlovable, #1) (Unlovable Series) (34 page)

Her sunny eyes finally meet mine, and like always, the warmth that look generates spreads through me like wildfire. I have to force myself not to smile like a fucking clown. “Yep, I’ll be ready,” she mumbles, as she licks her lips.

The things I want to do to that mouth and that body are dirty, dirty, dirty, so I propel myself from the bed after I mutter a strangled, “Good deal,” and hop into an ice cold shower. It’s just one of many this week.

S
HE BOUNDS FROM
the building with excitement rippling from her in waves. Her strength and tenacity always surprise me. Just when I get used to how strong she is, and I think she can’t top that, she barrels over my assumptions and proves me wrong. It gives me hope.

As she comes a little closer, I take in her simple appearance and know I’ve never seen anything sexier. White, button-up, long sleeve under a black, heavy coat. Her jeans are well worn and fit like a second skin, and she’s got them tucked into black cowgirl boots that are stitched with white designs. My eyes travel back up to see her hair in a French-braid, a few strands escaping to blow around her make-up free face. I have to start thinking about shoveling manure from my horse’s stall, and other mundane tasks, to fight off my rapidly growing need for her.

I push off the side of my truck and turn toward the door and covertly, I hope, adjust myself.

Opening the door wide, I glance at her as she sidles next to me, her arm brushing mine. “Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” she replies softly, as she climbs into my truck.

I close the door and make my way around to the driver’s side. She sits forward and pulls her coat off, since I have the truck warmed up for her already. I slide my aviators on and glance over to see her do the same. She looks up and laughs at our similar tastes in eyewear.

“You think it’s gonna snow on us?” she asks.

I pop my truck into gear and whip out of the parking lot. “They’re calling for it later this afternoon. We should be able to get some exercise in.”

“Hmm … do you mind?” she asks, gesturing to my collection of eight-tracks.

“Nope, go for it,” I tell her, curious to see what she’ll choose.

She puts a tape in, and I fight the urge to peek at it. She fast forwards a bit, presses play, and the Allman Brothers sing out a little before she presses fast forward again. “This is the only thing about eight-tracks. No instant gratification. You have to be patient,” she laughs. “What made you install one anyway?”

I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. “Instant gratification is highly overrated, and never underestimate the power of anticipation.” I can hear the double meaning in my words, so I quickly add, “And anything worth listening to came out before 1980, so it just made sense.”

My tactic works … I know she loves her modern country music. She gasps and her mouth drops open. “What?” She stops fast forwarding. “What about Garth Brooks, Bruce Springsteen, Miranda Lambert?” she demands.

“They play all that on the radio.”

“I guess you have a point,” she concedes, going back to searching for the song she wants.

She presses play and “Soulshine” floods the cabin. “Aha!” she cheers. “I do love that when you land on a song perfectly, you feel like you have superpowers!”

I can’t help but laugh at her enthusiasm just before I open my big mouth again. “Like I said, the power of anticipation … delayed gratification … it’s a heady thing.”

Her head flies up on that comment. Does she understand? She swallows hard, and then her gaze darts back to the landscape. The movements of her hands draw my attention, and when I glance down, I grin at their clenching and unclenching.
Oh, she gets it all right
.

My mood sobers pretty quickly when the lyrics start to infiltrate my brain. I wonder if she realizes how telling this song is for the both of us. She starts out on a low hum, but before I know it, she’s singing along quietly. That night I heard her sing, I was frozen. I literally could not look up or speak to anyone when I heard her voice cut across the bar. I’d never heard anything prettier. When Austin called me on stage to sing with her, I had to talk myself out of running up there, spinning her around in circles, and serenading her. My thoughts made me feel like a ridiculous dipshit, but they were what they were.

When the song comes to an end, I turn the stereo down a little. “You really can sing,” I tell her.

She giggles around a quiet, “Thank you.”

As had been our pattern this week, I know it’s time to talk a little. “Denver, the night of our interview,” I begin. She tenses up. I know this isn’t easy, but it’s the only way.

“Yeah?”

“You said some things about your mom.”

“Yeah.”

I wait for her to elaborate, but she just stares out of her window. “Well, it’s not every day someone calls her own mother a whore, so I guess it stuck,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood somewhat. “What did you mean by that?”

Releasing a long sigh, she finally says, “Well, my mom marries for money, hopping from one payday to the next, quicker than you can say prostitute. She’s cold, she’s calculating. She cares about no one but herself, not that the men she hooks up with deserve any kind of sympathy. She’s on husband number seven; he’s her boy toy. You best believe number eight will serve to replenish her bank account. So, in a nutshell, she’s a whore.”

Some of things she’d told me, combined with the way she sees herself, start to come into focus. “You’re not your mother,” I assert. I don’t know how I know this, but I do. She may have been promiscuous, but she’s not cold, not cruel. And that promiscuity bullshit is done, dammit, that doesn’t have to be something that marks her forever.

“You don’t know that,” she whispers.

“Denver, you may be reckless and a little wild, but you’re not cold. You’re not calculating,” I say with a glance at the back of her head.

Her gaze snaps to mine. “You called me those things in the interview. You used those exact words.”

I grip my steering wheel because she’s right. I’d said those very things, only I didn’t mean them. Well, I did at the time, but I was just being a jackass since I couldn’t have what I wanted.

“I didn’t know you, Denver. And while we’re on the subject, I owe you an apology.” I hate that I’m driving right now, so I whip my truck to the side of the road.

“You’ve already apologized,” she rushes out.

“Hmm … I apologized for being an ass,” I remind her, throwing the truck into park. “That doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

She gasps, as I toss my glasses on the dash, unbuckle, and jump from the cab. “Ransom, what are you doing?”

I round the truck, not breaking eye contact with her. Pulling her door open, I unbuckle her and turn her body to face mine. I ease her shades down and toss them on the seat. I mold my hands around her jaw. Her eyes are wide and searching.

This has been a long time coming, but I hadn’t wanted to take the focus off of her. So, I’ve been biding my time and have been rehearsing the shit out of exactly what I’d say. Of course, the second my mouth opens and I stare into her eyes, everything I had prepared flies out of my damn head.
Gonna have to wing it.

“I’ve never felt like more of a dick than the night I said those things to you, and that pissed me off so bad. The fact that I felt like that, the fact that you made me lose control and question myself, the fact that I knew you didn’t deserve that … I don’t know how to explain this without scaring the shit out of you, but nothing I said that night, or the next day for that matter, was about you.” I have to take a deep breath and force my fingers to relax. “It was about what
I
was feeling, and how
I
was hurting. You called me on my shit, though. You told me I was being childish and immature and a jerk. And you were right.” I hesitate and run my thumbs over her cheekbones. “I am sorry I said those things to you, Denver. You’ve got an uncanny knack for blaming yourself for other’s actions. You’re gonna let that go, and put that on me, where it deserves to be. Understand?”

I watch disbelief flitter across her eyes before she bursts out laughing. Not the reaction I was hoping for, but I’ll take her laughter any day of the week.

Raising her brow, she asks, “Are you seriously
demanding
that I forgive you?” She shakes her head back and forth as much as she’s able. “Well, if that don’t beat all.”

I drop my hands and lean in to her. “I’m serious, Denver. Those things should’ve never been said. Yes, you’ve made some mistakes. Who hasn’t? You didn’t deserve that shit. I’m sorry you had to prove that to me to gain my respect, but you have earned it, over and over again. Do you forgive me?”

“You respect me?” she breathes out.

“Hell, yes. I respect you more than anyone I’ve ever met, and I’ve known you for all of a couple of months. What does that tell you?”

“I forgive you,” she replies seriously.

“You gonna put that shit out of your head?”

She nods earnestly. “I’m going to try. Really try.”

“That’s all we can do,” I say, and start to turn away, but she stops me with a question.

“Why’d you kiss me that night?”

Facing her again, I turn that back around on her. “You kissed me first,” I grin.

Her face heats, and she grins back at me. “I did, but your kiss was … more. Why?”

There’s so much to my reasoning, but only one thought sums all that up. “Because I couldn’t
not
kiss you,” I admit.

I turn around quickly because I’m feeling that same intense urge to do it again, right here, right now. But, I know she’s not ready. Slamming my door, I pull back onto the road to take us to our horses.

Denver

W
ATCHING
R
ANSOM IN
his long-sleeve, black thermal, his faded jeans, and his dusty and worn cowboy boots as he shops for groceries is beyond fascinating. It’s like watching Santa Claus shop for Christmas presents. Here is this larger-than-life, sexier-than-all-hell bull rider doing something mundane like putting bacon in a shopping cart. I offered to push the cart, since it’s his fridge he’s restocking. I quickly decided that this was the smartest thing I’ve ever done. I get to marvel at his backside every time he stretches and bends. He caught me a couple of times when he turned to ask my preferences for what we’ll eat this week. I don’t even remember my answers because I couldn’t care less about all that.

Suddenly, translucent green eyes are staring into mine. “You seem distracted,” he murmurs. “Matter of fact, you’ve been distracted all afternoon—all throughout our ride and now here. You good?”

My wayward thoughts revolve around how good he is, how well he treats me, and how ridiculously appealing he is. Can’t mention any of that, though. “Umm … yeah, I’m good,” I choke.

He wrinkles his brow and frowns at me. “Well then, are you going to answer my question?”

“What question?”

Laughing, he asks, “Anything special you want to get?”

“Oh, um, some avocadoes and chips would be good.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah, I could live on those alone, I think.”

“Well, I doubt it,” he mumbles before leading me to the next aisle.

“Ransom?”

“Yeah?”

“You know a lot about me. Probably more than just about anyone,” I grumble.

“Umm, hmm,” he agrees, as he tries to decide between two kinds of mayonnaise.

I’m dying to know more about him. More than what everyone else knows. What makes him tick? What drives him? Why has he decided to help me? But I’m scared he’ll shut me out even after I’ve been pretty forthcoming with him. To know that level of trust isn’t reciprocated would crush me. “I know next to nothing about you,” I hedge.

He glances up and gives me that lopsided, roguish grin of his. God, if only I could be in his head to hear what he’s thinking when he gives me
that
grin. “What do you want to know?”

Everything.
I don’t know where to start, but I find myself whispering, “Why don’t you like to be called by your first name?”

He grimaces. “You don’t start with the easy stuff, do you? No … what’s your major?” he teases.

I laugh as I recall myself uttering those same words to him not so long ago. “Like someone else I know,” I challenge. “So what’s your major?” I quip, giving a brief reprieve.