Cowboy Most Wanted (Copper Creek Book 1) by Stina Lindenblatt

Author:Stina Lindenblatt [Lindenblatt, Stina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-06-11T18:30:00+00:00

15

The warm breeze flutters the leaves of the cottonwood tree. I lean down and kiss Violet’s back once more. I’m not ready to leave her heat, but there’s a condom to deal with, so I don’t have a choice.

I remove myself and dispose of it. But as soon as I rejoin Violet, an unexpected awkwardness settles on my shoulders.

The problem? It’s been a while since I’ve been in a relationship. With my ex-girlfriend, I would return to bed once I’d dealt with the condom. With one-night stands, I’d bail as soon as the woman and I were finished—no postcoital cuddling allowed.

But this feels different. Uncharted.

Right. We aren’t in a real relationship. We’re just screwing around. But since I haven’t gotten rid of my craving for her yet, I only hope there will be another chance to get her out of my system soon.

Except…

Maybe Violet doesn’t want to do it again. Maybe now that she’s had her fill, she’s ready to weather the next drought.

The possibility that she doesn’t want to be with me anymore feels like a blow dart to the heart…and I can’t understand why.

Violet collects her bikini bottoms from the ground and steps into them.

I retrieve my swim trunks and pull them on. “Do you need to get back to Grandma Meg’s yet?”

“No, not yet. I tucked Deacon into bed before coming here.” She smiles softly at her son’s name.

“He’s a good kid. I bet Grandma Meg is happy he’s staying here while you’re gone.”

Violet walks to the water’s edge and tests the temperature with her toes. “I swear she was close to doing backward handsprings down the hallway when I discussed it with her. She hasn’t seen much of him since he was born.”

I join her by the water but don’t bother testing it. I’m the type of man who rips off the Band-Aid. “How come?”

“She doesn’t like LA.”

I laugh because I know exactly her opinion of that city.

Violet shrugs. “I guess she has a point when it comes to her reasons. But it makes it tougher for her to see her great-grandson.”

“So why didn’t you just bring him here to visit?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she glances over at the tire swing and sprints toward it.

Because the last one in is a rotten egg.

Clearly we haven’t matured all that much since she was eight years old.

And like back then, my longer legs easily devour the distance to the cottonwood tree.

As soon as I reach the tree, I grab hold of the old tire, pull it back to gain maximum trajectory, and jump on.

Swinging from a tire takes skill, strength, and timing…but most of all it takes an unshakeable fearlessness.

Years of practice doesn’t hurt either.

As the tire approaches optimal height, I release the rope.

Back in the days, my brothers and I would judge each other when it came to our jumps. Unlike with diving, where a barely there splash is preferred, here, the bigger the splash, the more points scored.

And on the scale of one to ten, this splashdown is a twenty.

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