Dirty Scoundrel - Jessica Clare(ang.)

Copyright © 2017 Jessica Clare Cover photograph © ArtOfPhotos/Shutterstock The right of Jessica Clare to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. Published by arrangement with InterMix, A member of Penguin Group (USA) LLC, A Penguin Random House Company First published in this Ebook edition in 2017 by HEADLINE ETERNAL An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library eISBN 978 1 4722 5301 9 HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP An Hachette UK Company

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Table of Contents Title Page Copyright About the Author Praise for Jessica Clare By Jessica Clare About the Book Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Epilogue Meet the Roughneck Billionaires Welcome to the Billionaire Boys Club Meet the Billionaires and the Bridesmaids

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About the Author

Jessica Clare is the New York Times bestselling author of the Bluebonnet series, as well as the Billionaire Boys Club and Billionaires and Bridesmaids series. She also writes under the names Jill Myles and Jessica Sims. Jessica lives in Texas with her husband and cats, spending her time writing, reading, writing, playing video games, and doing even more writing.

Follow her on Twitter @_JessicaClare or join her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/AuthorJessicaClare.

Be dazzled by Jessica Clare’s passionate love stories . . . ‘Just thinking about it puts a smile on my face . . . In short, this is a really fun, entertaining, engaging book, and I can’t wait to read (and reread) the other billionaires’ stories’ Heroes and Heartbreakers ‘Saucy, blistering and emotionally endearing . . . sizzling good fun. With broad strokes and wry detail, Clare creates characters who are unapologetically individual and wonderfully unpredictable’ Romantic Times ‘An awesome quick read that touched my heart and stirred my spirit. Buckle up and take a ride – you’ll enjoy every peak, valley, twist, and turn’ Cocktails and Books ‘Fun and sexy and flirty . . . Stranded With A Billionaire has reignited my love of the billionaire hero’ The Book Pushers ‘Sizzling! Jessica Clare gets everything right in this erotic and sexy romance . . . You need to read this book!’ Romance Junkies ‘A cute, sweet romance . . . A fast, sexy read that transports you to the land of the rich and famous’ Fiction Vixen ‘Fast-paced, passionate, very sexy . . . A unique, modern-day fairy-tale that’s as steamy as it is entertaining’ Harlequin Junkie ‘A fun, flirty, and sexy read . . . an emotionally rich love story’ Fresh Fiction

By Jessica Clare Roughneck Billionaires Series Dirty Money Dirty Scoundrel Billionaire Boys Club Series Stranded With A Billionaire Beauty And The Billionaire The Wrong Billionaire’s Bed Once Upon A Billionaire Romancing The Billionaire One Night With A Billionaire His Royal Princess (novella) Beauty And The Billionaire: The Wedding (novella) Billionaires And Bridesmaids Series The Billionaire And The Virgin The Taming Of The Billionaire The Billionaire Takes A Bride The Billionaire’s Favourite Mistake Billionaire On The Loose

About the Book

Clay Price has everything he’s ever wanted, except the one thing money can’t buy – Natalie Weston. Years ago, Clay and Natalie were in love . . . until she turned down his marriage proposal. Now Clay and his brothers are oil-rich billionaires, they can have whatever they want. And what Clay wants is Natalie in his bed, no matter what it takes. If it means being ruthless, he’ll do it. Natalie gave up on true love years ago when the realities of the world destroyed her fairy-tale hopes. Giving up Clay is her biggest regret in life, and she’s excited to see him return . . . until she finds out why. Clay’s got one hell of a proposal for her: he’ll save her father’s business and bail Natalie out of debt if she’ll agree to become his very personal assistant. It’s clear that he wants more from her than just typing. It’s also clear that Natalie has no choice. This scoundrel’s bet could destroy any hope they had of reconciliation – or it could bring them together once and for all . . . Want more irresistible romance? Look for Jessica’s Billionaire Boys Club titles, starting with Stranded With A Billionaire, as well as the sizzling spinoff series,

Billionaires and Bridesmaids, starting with The Billionaire And The Virgin.

Chapter One

Clay My brother Boone doesn’t even give me a decent greeting when I knock on his door. Normally I’d comment about how the heavy wood double doors to his new ranch mansion are bigger than my trailer, but I don’t feel much like laughing today. Instead, I’ve got a cold knot in my gut that’s been there for days and feels like it’s growing larger by the moment. If it grows any bigger and I’m gonna start looking like delicate Ivy, all ponytail and belly. Well, ’cept for the ponytail, I guess. Boone just eyes me as he opens the door. He’s silent, too. My brother usually has something to say about everything, but maybe he’s got the same knot in his gut I do. He eyes my clothing, noting my best jeans and the only long-sleeved white shirt I own, which has also sat in the back of my closet since the last funeral I went to. It’s tight around the chest and neck, but fuck it. Ain’t nobody gonna give a shit today. I glance down at my boots, but the

heavy rain today is washing away any dirt I have on them. I’m mostly presentable. Mostly. My brother isn’t happy, though. He just shakes his head. “No jacket?” Another smart-ass comment rises to my mind but I bite it back, too. Doesn’t seem right to joke, even if that’s my natural instinct. Not today. “Nah. Don’t have one.” He grunts. “Seems like none of my brothers do. But Ivy wants everyone in jackets, so come in. You can borrow one of mine.” My brother’s been married for almost a year now, and his new wife has pretty much turned him upside down. New house, new clothes, looking at investments, you name it. What Ivy wants, Ivy gets. It’s a good thing Ivy’s the sweetest girl and doesn’t have a gold-digging bone in her body, because Boone’s absolutely batshit crazy for her and would give her his fortune if it’d make her smile. It’s kinda cute, in a henpecked sort of way. “Ivy dressing everyone?” My brother just arches an eyebrow at me. I ain’t wrong, I bet to myself as I shake off the rain in the echoing foyer. When I don’t drip on the marble flooring, I step forward and follow Boone into the downstairs living area. Sure enough, Ivy’s there, running a lint brush over Seth’s borrowed jacket. Gage is seated on a nearby chair dressed to the nines in some Gucci or Armani shit, but he’s the

only one out of all of us. Knox is nearby wearing another one of Boone’s jackets, but the way he’s adjusting the collar, I imagine he’s deciding whether or not to five-finger it home. Doesn’t matter that Knox is as rich as the rest of us—he likes to lift things. Dunno why. No one knows what’s going on in Knox’s head. Ivy takes one look at me and hurries over with her lint brush. “Clay, you’re not dressed.” Her brow wrinkles and she looks unhappy, studying my appearance. “We’ll have to get you one of Boone’s jackets.” “Eddie wouldn’t care,” I tell her, trying to smile. “He’s an old roughneck, through and through. I doubt he even owned a dress shirt. Wouldn’t expect me to own one.” “I care,” Ivy says, ignoring everything I say. “And his widow will care. And his children will care. It’s important, Clay.” She speaks to me like I’m a child but it just rolls off my back. Ivy is a little fussy about appearances but she means well, and she wants us to look right for this. And even though every one of us Price brothers knows Eddie Murteen wouldn’t give two shits what we wore to his funeral, it’s important to Ivy that we are respectable when we pay our last respects. So I shrug and put my arms out. “Come dress your Ken Doll, Barbie.” She thwacks me with the

lint brush as I grin. Guess I got a bit of spark left in me, after all. I jacket up, and Ivy fusses with my hair, removing my favorite baseball cap and wetting and combing down my flyaways like I’m a kid. I just let her fuss. Ivy’s the only female in our lives, so I figure she knows more about this sorta thing than we do. I glance down at her big belly and the tented black dress she’s wearing. “Junior’s getting big.” “His name won’t be Junior.” “Mason, then. That’s a good name.” “Like the jar? No thanks.” Boone just grins behind her like a big dumb loon. Never thought I’d see the day that my mulestubborn brother would let a little blonde waltz all over him, but he does. I bet this baby’s gonna have some trendy, crappy name like Juniper or Pastel or some shit. “Ford?” I suggest. “Like the car?” “Good, solid car.” “No. Absolutely not.” Ivy finishes messin’ with my hair and then runs the lint brush over my jacket. “All right. You look good. Are the wreaths in the cars? Everyone have umbrellas?” “We have hats,” Seth says, a bit of sulk in my youngest brother’s tone. “Umbrellas,” Ivy repeats firmly. “This is a funeral, not a bowling alley.” She fusses with the

string of pearls at her neck, looking worried. “I want you to look the part. Everyone’s going to be focused on the fact that the Price family is showing up—” “We look good, baby girl,” Boone says, moving to press a kiss to his wife’s cheek. “They’re just giving you shit. It’s going to be fine, I promise.” Ivy gives him a smile, reassured by his calm words. I wish I was so easily placated. The knot’s back in my stomach and growing. Ain’t no avoiding this. Eddie deserves a good send-off, and we’ll be there. I just wish . . . Fuck, I don’t know what I wish. * * * The funeral’s a good one, I guess. I’ve only been to two, but compared to my father’s funeral, this one’s done right. Eddie’s in the most expensive coffin that Price money can buy, since he died working on one of our rigs. There are flowers and wreaths all over the small chapel, and a shit-ton more at the graveside. The service is nice and decently attended, and I try not to look at Eddie’s widow and the three little boys she has sitting on the pew next to her. If I do, that knot in my stomach just grows and grows.

Eddie was too old to be roughnecking. Well, not too old. Too broken and too slow. It’s a young man’s job, and Eddie was pushing forty-five. He just didn’t have the moves he used to, and when equipment snaps—like it did this last week—you have to move fast. The good news is that when the pipe tripped and hit him, it hit him in the head. Never felt a thing. Just snapped his neck like a potato chip and boom, no more Eddie. I guess if you have to go, that’s a good way to go. I wiggle my foot in my shoe, feeling the gap where my two missing toes are. When I lost them on a rig accident, it fucking hurt like hell and I bled like a stuck pig. But Eddie would have gone instantly. One minute there, the next, gone. The world is minus one Eddie Murteen in the blink of an eye. I worshipped Eddie as a teen. He was a great guy. Worked with me when I started on my first rig, just a shitty kid with a chip on his shoulder and a broken heart. Bought me a beer when my dad died and I couldn’t sack up enough to stop crying, even on the job. He was mentor and friend to both me and Boone, and when Price Brothers Oil hit it big, we gave him work. He’s not great at what he does, but he’s loyal as hell. That counts for a lot. Guess that should be past tense now. My gut churns again.

I glance over and Ivy’s rubbing the widow’s back while Boone talks. I know what he’s telling her. PBO is gonna cover the funeral expenses and make sure she has a pension. The good thing about being rich is you can throw money at people and it makes it seem like everything’s gonna be okay. Except it doesn’t feel like it’s okay. It just feels shitty and this knot in my stomach won’t go away. Someone sits down next to me. Even though most of the family and friends are getting up to go to the wake, I can’t quite pull myself out of my seat. I’m staring up at the altar, at the front of the church where the coffin was a short time ago. Eddie’s gone, six feet under. Shit, that’s a mindfuck. I rub my mouth and look over at the person next to me—it’s Knox, my younger brother. “What do you want?” “You look like you’re gonna puke,” Knox comments, picking up a Bible from the back of one of the pews and flipping through it. I snatch it out of his hand and put it back. Funny how Knox can read me—most of the time no one can tell what I’m thinkin’. Must not be that good at my poker face today. “I wasn’t gonna take it,” he says, but it’s clear he’s amused by my actions. “And you still look like you’re about to upchuck. What gives?”

He’s a jerk, my little bro, but he’s a jerk with good instincts. I cross my arms and shrug, sliding down in my seat like I’m a little kid instead of a grown-ass man. “Just . . . fuck. Reminds me of Dad’s funeral from back in the day. Don’t it to you?” Knox considers, then shakes his head slowly. “Nah.” He gestures at the front. “Lots of flowers. Dad didn’t have none.” He indicates the widow and her kids with another sweep of his hand. “Got family here that grieve him. Dad just had us. All his lady-friends didn’t show up.” He glances over at me. “And the company men are paying the expenses. So no, it ain’t much like Dad’s funeral.” I hate that he’s right. I hate that our dad got buried in a cheap-ass coffin at an empty funeral. I hate that he didn’t matter to no one but us. Even after all this time, it still burns in my belly. “Dad was a piece of shit, though,” Knox says. “I know what you’re thinking. That when you pass, you should be surrounded by loved ones, but Dad was a user. I mean, look at me and Gage.” He smiles thinly. Yeah, I know what he means. Knox and Gage were born two months apart, two completely different moms. Dad was married to my mom at the time. He wasn’t a good guy, but damn. We all deserve someone that’s gonna love us until the end, don’t we? “I guess I’m just thinkin’ life is short, you

know? Eddie was in his forties. Should have had a lot of good years ahead of him.” I nod at the three boys at the front. “See them graduate from college and all.” “Mmm. So this isn’t about Dad. This is about regrets, huh?” Knox leans back and puts an arm on the back of the pew, and for a moment he looks wise beyond his years. Is this about regrets, then? Is that burning fireball in my stomach because I’m picturing what my own funeral would be like? That I’m not imagining anything but a few employees and my brothers? I try to picture Natalie here, but yeah right. Her ass wouldn’t be here if wild horses dragged her. The thought’s fucking depressing—both in that Natalie is disgusted by me, and that I’m still hung up on her after all these years. I must be an idiot. “You’re wrong,” I tell Knox. “I’m good.” He ignores me, tilting his head. “So what is it you want out of life? Money? Success? You already have both.” He nods over to Ivy and Boone. Our brother has his hand on the small of Ivy’s back, and he’s gazing down at her as she speaks like pearls are dropping out of her damn mouth. Boone’s totally fucking besotted. It’d be funny if I wasn’t so fucking jealous. Not of him and Ivy—they’re perfect together. I just . . .

I rub my jaw again, feeling the bristles of my beard. I haven’t looked at anyone like that since . . . Goddamn it. That’s twice now I’ve thought of Natalie in the same day. Must be getting moody. “Dunno what I want. Ain’t this, that’s for sure.” “No one wants this,” Knox says with a shrug of his shoulders. “But it comes for all of us in the end. Question is, you gonna end up in that box with regrets?” The knot in my gut returns. “Maybe.” “That’s your problem,” my wise little brother says. He wags a finger at me like he’s scolding a child. “You ain’t ruthless.” “Huh?” I squint at him like he’s crazy. “You’re the nice one, Clay.” “I am?” Knox nods sagely. “You’re the one everyone goes to when Boone needs softening up. You’re the one everyone looks to for a laugh, or to smooth things over. Everyone’s friend. You don’t know how to be ruthless. You’re so busy making sure everyone else is happy and smiling that you don’t go after what you want.” Is that who I am? Just a happy-go-lucky piece of shit who’s miserable on the inside? I don’t think that’s me, but then again, this ache in my belly might be telling me otherwise. I look over at Boone and Ivy. She’s got her head on his shoulder, and I

know when they leave here, he’s probably gonna rub her feet or rub her belly or, hell, just rub her all over. And she’ll fuss over him and they’ll end up doing it on the sofa in the foyer and someone will catch ’em. Again. And they’ll just laugh like it’s funny and Ivy will blush, and they both won’t be able to stop smiling. They’re so goddamn happy. I look over at the widow and her boys. She’s herding them out of the building, tears streaking her face. She’s sobbed through the entire ceremony. Loved Eddie to pieces. And I think of Nat again. Nat, and the way she curled her lip at me the last time I saw her. Nat, and how I wasn’t good enough for her. Nat, who chose her daddy and her family money over me, when I would have given her the moon if I’d have had two nickels to rub together. Nat, who I still jerk off to because I’m a sick son of a bitch with a massive hang-up. “Gotta be ruthless,” Knox says. “That’s the only way you’re gonna get what you want.” Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s time I nut up and use some of this ridiculous money and be ridiculous with it. I glance over at Boone again. He threw around all kinds of money to push Ivy into dating him. Maybe I need to throw my weight around and act like the big man. Buy my way into the heart of the girl I always wanted but I could never have.

And then, once I’ve bought her heart, I can hold it in my hand and decide if I want to crush it or keep it. Gotta be ruthless, after all.

Chapter Two Seven years earlier

Clay It’s time. I can’t say I’m not nervous, though. Any guy would be. My palms are sweaty as I shove them into my jeans, but I’m determined. Tonight’s important. High school is over, and that means that it’s time to move on to the next phase in my life. I stand in front of the diner that I’ve agreed to meet Natalie’s father at, and try not to fidget. I’m dressed up—well, as much as a guy like me can be. There ain’t much money for fancy clothes, but I borrowed one of Dad’s old dress shirts and tucked it into my best, least worn-out jeans. The shirt’s a little big but ain’t much to be done about it now. Nat wouldn’t care, though. She’s never cared that my T-shirts are about to fall apart or that my shoes come from Goodwill. She don’t care that I share a room in my dad’s shitty-ass trailer with my

younger brothers. She’s never cared about any of that shit. That’s why I love her. That’s why I want to marry her. A car pulls up to the restaurant I’m currently pacin’ in front of and my heart hammers in my chest. Tonight, me and Nat and her Dad are supposed to be havin’ dinner. I’m gonna meet Mr. Weston and do my best to charm him, and then tomorrow, I’m gonna go over and let him know I wanna propose to his daughter. That I love Natalie Weston with all my heart, and that I might be poor right now, but I’m determined to give her a good life. That I’ll treat her like fuckin’ gold. My mouth goes dry when the sedan idles in front of the restaurant and a driver hops out, then races around to the side of the car and opens the door. A moment later, Chap Weston steps out. I recognize the guy. Anyone would. He’s famous in a way that a lot of Hollywood actors will never get. In the fifties and sixties, there were some really big names in Hollywood royalty—Marilyn Monroe, Clark Gable, John Wayne, Jimmy Stewart . . . and Chap Weston. Even though he’s more’n twice the age he was in those movies, he’s still got that famous smile and tall, strong shoulders. He’s wearing an expensive, fitted suit that makes me feel a little self-conscious in my too-baggy dress shirt

and jeans, and his hair is immaculately combed. Shit. I didn’t even think to do somethin’ with my hair. I bet it’s stickin’ up in all kinds of cowlicks like Natalie teases me over. Ain’t nothin’ I can do about it now, though. I still wither a little inside when Mr. Weston strolls forward and gives me a scrutinizing look. “Are you Clay Price?” “Yessir.” I stick my hand out, surprised at the booming resonance of his voice. Guy looks damn good for being eighty. Still weird that he’s the dad of my seventeen-year-old girlfriend, but Hollywood’s weird like that. Nat’s told me she’s the daughter of wife number four and he’s on number six right now. “I’m real pleased to meet you—” “Spare me the pleasantries,” Mr. Weston says in a cold voice. “This won’t take long.” He glances over at his driver and gestures. “Wait in the car.” The driver nods and shuts the door, then hops back into the driver’s seat. I try to hide my frown. “Natalie not coming tonight?” “You’re not going to see Natalie again,” Mr. Weston says, with that polite smile on his face. His teeth are bright white in his tanned face, and perfect. I can feel my back stiffening. My muscles clench and alarm pounds through me. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not an idiot, boy. I know exactly what this is about.” He continues to give me that charming smile, even though his words are hateful. “You’re interested in my daughter. I’m here to tell you she’s not interested in you. I’m trying to let you down easy.” Huh? I just talked to Nat on the phone a few hours ago. We texted not long after that. “I’m not sure what you mean—” He holds up a long hand, indicating I should be silent. “You’re here because you want to meet with me. Get to know me a little better. Best-case scenario, you want to move in with my daughter. Worst-case scenario, you’ve gotten her pregnant and I need to step in.” His eyes narrow at me. Move in with her? “Sir, I want to marry Natalie. I love her—” Chap Weston shakes his head at me, interrupting me once more. I’m all flustered and unable to think clearly, even as he continues. “That’s a nice thought, but what do you have to offer her?” “What do you mean?” “I mean I’ve looked into your family, son. They’re not exactly what anyone would dream of for a son-in-law.” He gives me a pitying look. I grit my teeth. It ain’t a secret that the Prices are trash. There’s five of us—all from different moms—livin’ in our shitty trailer while Dad

roughnecks it out west. My brother Boone just joined him this last year, and I’m about to head off and do the same. “I’ve got a job lined up. I’m gonna work real hard.” “And what, move my Natalie into a trailer? Don’t you think she deserves better than that?” I clench my jaw, because he’s right. Natalie does deserve better than that. “Son,” he begins again in that grating tone I’m startin’ to hate. “My daughter is smart. She’s got great connections. I want her to go to Stanford, just like I did. You know she’s been accepted, right?” Huh? Stanford? I don’t even know where that’s at. And Natalie hasn’t mentioned college, not once. I thought we’d make plans now that we’ve graduated. “No, I didn’t know that.” The look he gives me is pitying. “I see. Well, that doesn’t change things. Natalie will be attending in the fall and working on her degree. She’s got the world in front of her—that’s what I’m trying to tell you. You’d only bring her down.” This can’t be true. Natalie loves me. Just last night, we kissed for hours and she promised me that she loved me as much as I loved her. It can’t all be lies. “I think you’re wrong, sir—” “It doesn’t matter what I believe, son. Look in your heart. You think you can offer Natalie the kind of life she deserves?” He gives me a long, up-anddown look again, eyeing my clothes.

And I feel . . . ashamed. He’s not wrong. The job I’ve got lined up is roughnecking—hard, dirty work that pays well enough, but not like what Natalie will be used to. I know her dad lives on an enormous ranch out in the country. I know he’s got all kinds of Hollywood money coming in. Natalie wears name-brand designer clothing. She’s gone on fancy vacations with her dad and her stepmom to places I can’t even find on the map. All I’ll have to offer is my starting salary as a roughneck “worm”—the lowest guy on the totem pole—and hope I can move up. And love, of course. I can offer her so much damn love. But now I’m starting to think that won’t be enough. Natalie Weston is . . . well, she’s perfect. Shy, soft-spoken, sweet, and caring. I’m just a crude Price. Still, I can’t give up on the girl I love. “I might not be the best guy for her, Mr. Weston, but no one will love her more than me. No one.” “That’s a nice sentiment,” he says, glancing back at his driver. “But I can tell you all about how fleeting love is, and so can my five ex-wives. And it’s hard to have love when you don’t have money.” My heart squeezes somethin’ fierce and I begin to feel despair. I’m losing. Somehow I’m losing and I’m gonna lose . . . everything. “This isn’t what Natalie wants—”

“You so sure about that? She didn’t tell you about Stanford.” His voice gentles. “My Natalie’s got a soft heart. She wouldn’t want to hurt you more than is necessary, son.” I can’t believe this is true. I can’t. I think of Natalie, with her big blue eyes and her soft smile. Feels like my fucking heart is being ripped in half. “Why wouldn’t she say anything to me?” “Why do you think I’m out here?” The smile he gives me is genuinely full of remorse. “She needed some way to break this to you easily. She knew what was coming and she didn’t know how to get out of it.” He gives me a rueful grin. “Dear ol’ Dad to the rescue.” No way. She sent her dad to break up with me? I know Natalie hates conflict, but this is fuckin’ ridiculous. “I need to talk to Natalie.” This doesn’t make sense. I thought . . . Just last night . . . I thought we were going to marry. I even have a ring in my pocket. I’ve carried it every day since I bought it. Granted, it’s only from the pawnshop, but I thought we could joke about how I’d buy her a better one once we got on our feet. I thought Natalie would think it’s cute. Maybe I don’t know her like I thought. “I understand,” Mr. Weston says. “Of course you will. She’s a little upset tonight, so maybe hold off until tomorrow morning, hmm?”

“Sure,” I say dully. “Whatever.”

Natalie “Dad, have you seen my phone?” I race down the stairs, flustered. We’re already late for my big evening with Clay, and I know he’s going to be frustrated. I can’t call him to tell him that my stepmother’s been locked up with her emotionalsupport cockatoo for the last hour, weeping and feeding the poor fat bird crackers. Everything’s always drama with my family. Not surprising, I guess, given that Dad still treats everything like it’s Hollywood. But jeez, it can be exhausting. I straighten my sundress, pulling my favorite white cardigan over my shoulders. Johanna—my stepmom—isn’t going to be able to make dinner but we can hopefully still meet Clay. I’m excited about tonight and what it might mean for Clay and me. Meeting the family—that’s step one along a more serious commitment, isn’t it? My heart flutters happily in my chest at the thought. I know I’m only seventeen, but I also know I won’t ever love someone as much as I love Clay Price. Just the thought of his boyish smile and the way his brown

hair is always shaggy and slightly overgrown makes my heart hurt with all the intense emotion I feel. Clay’s not rich, but he’s the best. I know if my dad gets to meet him, he’ll love him as much as I do and see how happy he makes me. But when I get downstairs, my father’s walking back into the house and putting his hat on its normal peg. I frown to myself. It’s almost like he’s just returned. I’ve been so distracted with Johanna I didn’t notice he’d gone. “Did you leave? And have you seen my phone? I can’t find it anywhere and I need to let Clay know we’re going to be late. Johanna—” “I went and talked to your young man,” Dad says in a stern voice. “Come sit down, Natalie.” “You did?” Why does that sound so ominous? But I follow my father into his grand study quietly, a thousand questions buzzing in my mind. I watch as he sits at his desk, one that Marlon Brando sat at in one of his big movies. I sit in a chair opposite him, one from a John Wayne film. My dad loves props and has spent a fortune on buying set pieces from the movie lots. Our entire home is filled with things from famous movies, and as a result, the atmosphere is a little . . . well, “eclectic” is probably far too kind a word. “Scattershot” is more like it. But my dad is old Hollywood, and we’re not exactly a normal family anyhow, so I don’t mind. I smooth my skirt and try not to show my

nervousness. “You saw Clay?” I ask again. “Is he going to wait for us a bit longer? Johanna—” Dad shakes his head. “I’m afraid our dinner is canceled.” “Canceled?” I echo. “But why?” He pulls an envelope off his desk and pushes it toward me. “You got accepted to Stanford, by the way.” I ignore it. Dad’s been pushing Stanford on me for all my life, because he went to college there for a brief time before heading to Hollywood. I haven’t made any decisions about college . . . well, because I wanted to know where Clay and I were going. “What about Clay, Dad?” “He’s breaking up with you.” My father delivers the words so casually, and yet they hit me with the force of a sledgehammer. I grip the carved wooden arms of the chair. “Whwhat?” Dad nods. “You’re planning on going to college, right? He said he didn’t want to wait around. Said that he had better things to do with his time. I suspect his family is the type that likes their women barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen.” My father shakes his head. I stare, unable to believe what I’m hearing. My Clay said this? “I . . . know that he was going to take a job with his father this summer,” I say,

though it’s hard to speak around the knot in my throat. “But I thought . . .” “Oh, he said he’d marry you, but he made it quite clear that if you went to college, it would be over.” What the hell? Does Clay really want me sitting around twiddling my thumbs, waiting to have his babies? I did want to go to college but wanted to discuss where with Clay first, hoping it could be someplace near where he’d be. How could Clay make me choose? Crap, it was even worse than that —he chose for me! When my father nudges the envelope toward me again, I pick it up. I feel numb. I don’t even recall applying to Stanford, so one of his assistants must have done this. Not surprising, given that my dad has a crew to run everything in his life. He doesn’t like to be alone. I gaze down at the letter, the words blurring before my eyes. Everything feels like it’s dying. All the things I’d hoped for, all the joyful dreams I’d made—they’d all involved Clay. Surely . . . surely I have more ambition than that? More than just being some guy’s wife? Or is that all that I truly want? I’m so confused. I don’t know what to think anymore. “He’s never said . . .” “My darling, why would he? I learned this the hard way in Hollywood—the more options you give

someone, the less likely they are to take the one that you want them to take. The best way to get someone to do what you want is to give them as few options as possible. You never offer your leading man four scripts. You offer him the one you want him to take and go from there.” “This isn’t Hollywood, Dad,” I say bitterly. “That’s where you’re wrong. Everything in this world is run like Hollywood. It’s a game of who you know and what face you wear.” I bite back my retort and clutch the Stanford letter desperately in my hand. Is he right? Is this what Clay wanted? To trap me into a marriage so I’d stay at home and have kids and just . . . hang around and cook him dinners? Yesterday, I wouldn’t have even minded if he’d said that! But to give me no other options, like I can’t make my own mind up? That hurts me deeply. “I need some time to think, Dad.” “Of course. Take all the time you need, and then when you’re ready, we’ll talk Stanford.” As I stand, he turns his chair a little and holds a hand out to me. That’s what Dad does—he doesn’t hug—he just takes my hand and squeezes it. I know my Dad loves me in his weird, eccentric way, but right now I really, really need a hug. Clay would hug me. The thought hurts so much that I break into a sob.

“Now, now,” my father says in a soothing voice. “Trust your daddy to know what’s good for you.” I nod through my tears. Dad may want us all to dance to his weird little tune, but I know he’d want what’s best for me. I give him a teary-eyed smile, and then when I can’t hold it in any longer, I rush up to my room, tears blurring my vision. I can’t bear it. It hurts too much. I curl up on my bed and bawl my eyes out, and I don’t even get up when Jenny, the maid, slips in and places my phone on my desk. What do I need a phone for anymore? Clay’s the only person I ever want to talk to. He’s my only friend and my boyfriend—everyone else in this stupid town hates me. And now it seems that Clay—my sweet, loving, handsome Clay—thinks I should just stay home and be his little woman. Maybe . . . maybe I should go to Stanford. I cry until someone comes and knocks on my door an hour later. “Miss Natalie?” It’s Jenny, the maid. “There’s someone at the front door for you.” “Tell them to go away,” I call out, sniffing. “I told him you were unavailable but he says he won’t leave.” Her muffled voice is worried. “Should I call the police?” I fling myself off the bed, suddenly furious. I know exactly who’s waiting at the door, and how dare he think he can come over here and just try to smooth things over after dropping that bomb in a

conversation with my father? Stay home with him? What about what I want? Did he never stop and think that maybe he should ask me how I feel? I storm past a bewildered Jenny and down the stairs, heading for the carved double doors that lead to our covered front porch. When I fling them open, sure enough, Clay Price is standing there. His hands are stuffed in his pockets and he’s wearing an oversized dress shirt that’s now wrinkled, and his hair—always a bit wild and unkempt—flies about his head. “We need to talk,” he says in a flat voice. His face is blank. That’s the thing with Clay Price. He never shows you what he’s really thinking. My back goes up. “I don’t think there’s anything to say,” I tell him icily. “So it’s true, then? You’re gonna go off to Stanford?” He sounds pissed. Good, I’m pissed, too. I’m hurt and angry that he’d think my opinion matters so little that he could decide my future for me. “I just might,” I say lightly. “What, you think I should stay here and marry you?” The moment I say it, it feels like a mistake. The knot in my throat increases, and I can see him visibly flinch as the words come out. And I’m surprised, because it seems like for the first time, Clay looks vulnerable.

“No,” he says softly. “I guess not.” He puts a pair of fingers to his forehead and gives me a mock salute. “Have a nice life. I’m heading to West Texas with my pop.” “Bye,” I tell him in a flat tone. “I’m going to Stanford.” And I turn around and slam the door behind me. The moment I do, I burst into tears again. * * * Hours later, I’m all cried out. I realize we’ve both been acting childish and I want to talk to him. Maybe we can work things out. Maybe I can make him see that my education is important, and what I want is just as important as what he wants. Maybe we can still get married and I can go to college parttime while we make a home together. Sniffling, I pick up my phone to text him even though it’s late. All I know is that I love him and I don’t want this to be the end between us. Before I can hit the “Send” button, there’s an urgent knock at my bedroom door. “Natalie?” It’s not Jenny, but my stepmom, Johanna. “Natalie, open up! It’s your father! There’s something wrong with him!” My father? Oh no. He’s old, but he’s still so vibrant that it doesn’t seem like he’ll ever age like normal people. This can’t be happening. I rush to

the door to find Johanna’s teary face. “What is it?” I blurt out, racing past her toward their bedroom. “I think he’s having a heart attack!” she wails in my ear. Texting Clay is completely forgotten.

Chapter Three Present

Natalie I know it’s going to be a bad day when I wake up to find my dad standing over my bed. I sit up, rubbing my eyes, and glance at the alarm clock. Five in the morning. “Dad?” “Where’s the cat?” he asks. “I heard it meowing.” Biting back my sigh, I get out of bed and put on my slippers. “There’s no cat, Dad.” “Of course there’s a cat, Jenny. I gave it to you for Christmas. Remember? You said you wanted a cat and I paid one of Frankie’s friends to bring you one.” “Right,” I say, since it’s better than arguing with Dad. I’m not Jenny, first of all—that’s the maid we had who retired over six years ago. And I’m betting “Frankie” was Frank Sinatra. At any rate, there’s

never been a cat in all of my twenty-five years. “I’ll go find it. You go back to bed, okay?” My father continues to argue with “Jenny” about the cat as I take him gently by the arm and lead him back to his room. Even though he protests, I help him back into his bed and tuck the covers around him like he’s a child. This is a typical “bad” morning for us, though lately they’ve been becoming more the norm. He holds my hand, mumbling about the cat for a bit longer until he falls back asleep, and then I’m able to tiptoe away . . . Right into a warm puddle on the floor. Oh no. Because that’s how I wanted to start the day—stepping in pee. But my father can’t help it. He’s eighty-seven now and his Hollywood looks have gone. His shoulders are hunched, part of his face is still slack after his stroke, and his dementia has been worse every year. It’s a long fall for someone as proud as Chap Weston, so I do my best to make things easy for him. Not that he knows who I am most of the time. He’s lost in memories, and I can’t hold it against him if he can’t hold his bladder. So I get towels and clean it up, then wash my feet before getting dressed and heading downstairs to start the day. I’m not going to let this morning’s episode with my father depress me, even though it’s obvious he’s getting worse. One crisis at a time.

I make myself a cup of coffee in a Chap Weston souvenir mug, choke down a cold Pop-Tart, and gaze at one of the posters on the wall as I eat breakfast. This one’s from one of my dad’s biggest hits in 1952—a musical about sailors in a submarine. His handsome, strong form is in the center of the photo, with a cute girl clinging to his arm. No wonder my dad likes to live in the past. I have to admit, the present isn’t exactly my favorite, either. Back then he was world-famous, rich, and popular. Now he’s just a senile old guy with a tooyoung daughter and a mountain of bills. I glance at the overflowing inbox on my desk, tucked into the corner of the kitchen, and try not to shudder. I’ll look at them later. Maybe. I make three dozen oatmeal-walnut cookies— the Chap Weston favorite—for the gift shop and wrap them with colorful Saran wrap and stickers of my dad’s face from a black-and-white Western movie, Big Sky Callin’. I put them in a basket, take them to the front parlor (which has been completely revamped as the gift shop) and then begin the process of cleaning up our large ranch since tour groups will be coming in starting at ten in the morning. There’s a lot to do between now and then. I move through the twenty rooms of our twenty-five-room ranch that have been designated as the “Chap Weston museum tour” and begin

picking up trash from the night before. There’s always crap that guests have left behind—gum stuck to antique furniture, candy wrappers tucked away in corners, cigarette butts . . . I even found a used condom in a bedroom once. People are freaks. I continue on, dusting props, vacuuming, straighten up the velvet cordoned ropes that guide the guests through the home, and make sure that none of the movie props been moved to the wrong room. Each of the rooms is set up with a theme from one of Dad’s biggest movies, complete with cardboard cutouts of my dad in the appropriate costumes. It’s corny as hell but people get a kick out of it. As I pass through each room, I turn on the music from each of the movies. Big Sky Callin’s soundtrack in the Western parlor, Little Tiki Princess in the hula room, Ahoy, My Lady in the submarine room, and so on. Even the guest restrooms have a theme—The Adventures of Roy Danger, another cowboy movie musical that made my dad a star. Unfortunately, the restrooms also have leaky toilets and tend to get clogged, and so I spend a good portion of the morning scrubbing the horseshoe-pattern tiles on the floors before heading upstairs to change into my work uniform. Oh, the work uniform. How I hate it. It’s humiliating to have to dress like Loretta Paige from Roy Danger, but it sells tickets and makes people

open their wallets in the gift shop more than the regular dumpy, too-young daughter of Chap Weston does. And these days, everything I do is designed to bring money in. So I suck up my pride and dress like the redneck cousin of Elly May Clampett, because that’s what makes people really enjoy the “experience.” I have to do all of this to pay for my father’s medical bills. Because even though he was a huge star in the fifties and sixties, my dad also lived like a movie star all his life. Before his stroke, he had a constant entourage of at least five to six people at all times—accountants, agents, assistants, publicists, you name it. There were lavish vacations to private islands and endless gifts for wives, exwives, girlfriends, and anyone else Chap Weston wanted to impress. After a string of questionable life choices and a string of even more questionable ex-wives, he’s flat broke, senile, and has to rely on his daughter turning his home into a museum in order to keep the lights on. It’s not exactly how I envisioned my dynamic father’s twilight years. For a moment, I stare into the mirror at my reflection—the brunette in a shirt that looks like a cross between a fringe explosion and a pink sausage casing—and I feel so much older and far more tired than I should be. Sometimes I just want to get up and run out the door and never look back.

I can’t, though. I’m trapped. My skin prickles and I feel hot. Trapped. Twenty-five years old and trapped. There’s no escaping the crap-fest my life has become. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and then exhale, calming myself. There’s nothing I can do. My dad doesn’t have anyone else to lean on. Managers, agents—those people disappeared when the money did. All he’s got left are a few ex-wives that call once a month for their support checks— and his lonely, lonely daughter. So I suck it up and take care of things the best I can. Chap Weston’s got no one else. Every now and then, I think about the life I might have had if my dad hadn’t had his stroke that night and everything came crashing down. If Johanna hadn’t run for the hills and left me with an elderly, ailing father, and his accountants hadn’t called to inquire about the mountain of debt that was slowly crushing my father’s legacy. I’d been blissfully unaware of such things. Johanna would have stayed, maybe. I would have gone to Stanford and pursued a career in psychology or anthropology. That girl would have texted Clay back and asked him not to leave. She would have told him she needed him, and she didn’t want Stanford nearly as much as she wanted him.

But that girl’s dead and gone, I guess. All that’s left is Howdy Doody’s more garish cousin, Pinky Doody. Or something. I make a face at my reflection. A riding lawnmower roars to life outside, which means that there’s no more time to fart around. I finish putting my dark hair into the Loretta pigtails, stuff on my pink cowboy hat, and head downstairs. Time to kick things into high gear. I grab another cup of coffee for myself and a bottle of Gatorade, heading out onto the porch just in time to see Old Jimmy, our neighbor, wave as he mows the sculpted lawns of Weston Ranch’s twenty-five acres. Well, kind of mows. More like he drives the mower over the lawn and cuts most of the grass. Not all of it. I like to think that it looks a bit like a cinnamon roll. Or zebra stripes. Or like a nearsighted ninety-year-old mowed it, which is the case. It’s too much yard for anyone to tackle, but Old Jimmy’s a fan. He’s the sweetest man and a great neighbor, and it’s not something I can handle on my own. When he volunteered, I took him up on it, no questions asked. I can’t even complain, really. He loves doing the yards just for a chance to come and have dinner with us once a week. He’s not very good at them, but he tries. He tries really, really hard.

Story of my life. Seems like that’s what’ll be written on my tombstone. Natalie Weston—she’s not very good, but she tries really hard. I trot outside to greet Old Jimmy and hold out the sports drink, yelling over the sound of the motor. “Morning, Jimmy.” He flips the mower off and beams at me, his lined face crinkling. His glasses are already sliding down his nose—no surprise, since the lenses are thicker than magnifying glasses. “Morning, Miss Nat. How’s your dad today?” I put a smile on my face. “It’s not gonna be a great day, but he might perk up by the time it’s autograph time.” Dad loves having his picture taken, even to this day, and manages to have a few lucid hours for his fans most of the time. “Gonna be a hot one. Stay hydrated, okay?” I hand him the drink. “Of course. You fix that leaky faucet upstairs yet? Want me to come take a look at it?” “It’s fixed,” I lie, giving him a cheery expression. “Called the plumber last week.” There’s no money for a plumber, but there’s also no money to pay Jimmy, and I feel bad enough abusing his goodwill as it is. I’d do the lawns myself but there’s absolutely no way I could do the yards and the cleaning and the museum on my own. Plus, I have to stay close enough to Dad in case he trips and falls.

Plus, if he fixes it half as well as he mows the yard . . . well. “Got a few loose shingles on the roof,” Jimmy comments, unscrewing the lid on the Gatorade and taking a gulp. “You got someone to look at it for you?” “I know a guy. I’ll call him.” I pat Jimmy on the shoulder. “Don’t you worry about it. Anyhow, I need to get inside. It’s almost opening time.”

Clay When the limo comes to a stop, a surge of memories comes over me at the sight of the sprawling Western ranch ahead of us. “What in fresh hell is this shit?” Knox asks, rubbing his beard as he stares out the window. “Bonanza Land?” “Chap Weston Land, more like it. Supposed to be a museum now.” I tip my baseball cap back and gaze out the window on his side. He’s not wrong about this place being a bit like a movie set—the ranch is sprawling but . . . man, is it ugly as fuck. The lawns look like they’ve been mowed by a three-year-old, and the main house itself looks like a reject from a Western movie. A really old, cheap one. There’s a red Spanish-tile roof over a bright

yellow exterior, and a big weather-aged sign shows a picture of the black-and-white movie star Chap Weston welcoming visitors to his home. There’s a gravel parking lot and a few wood cutouts of horses in the distance. It looks different than I remember it from back when I was dating Natalie. Didn’t remember it being quite so . . . garish. So very . . . Chap Weston–y. I should have expected this, given that I remember coming to this place as a teenager . . . but still, seeing it again is strange as hell. Knox is right—this place is garish as fuck and it looks like it’s gotten worse over time. “Thought this was the girl that turned you down, man.” I elbow Knox for sayin’ that shit. He knows good and well who I came after. There’s only ever been Natalie Weston in my life, far as I’m concerned. I’ll flirt with waitresses and buy a girl a drink at the bar if I’m feeling particularly lonely, but no one goes home with me. No one gets my digits. Never been room in my life for anyone but her. Knox knows that. Never been anyone but Natalie. Even now, thinking about her makes my heart ache, just a little. Growing up, everyone at school hated Nat because she was the rich girl and her daddy was an old, famous geezer with buckets of money. She was all shy and sweet if anyone talked to her, but no one ever did. ’Cept me. I remember how pretty she

was, though. How she wore these demure little pink sweaters and had her dark hair all shiny and glossy like a movie star. Her big blue eyes and the shy, reserved smile that she shared with me alone. Her lean little body and the way she kissed. I remember a lot about Nat. And I remember the last words Nat ever spoke to me on the night that she broke my heart. “What, you think I should stay here and marry you?” Shit’s burned into my brain. I can’t forget. And now it’s time to take action again. I’ve let seven years pass. No sense in letting more slip through my fingers. I gesture at the driver, then point at the gravel parking lot that only has one other car in it. “Just wait here for us. I don’t think we’ll be too long.” I nudge my brother Knox. “Come on. Let’s go inside.” “Can’t believe you dragged me out here to this,” Knox says, but his tone is amused and he’s smilin’. Knox is a weird one. He loves to be surprised, and I’m guessin’ this is a big surprise. I know it is for me. I keep picturin’ classy, prim Natalie in this tourist trap and I’m drawin’ a blank. Maybe they sold the place? If so, they’re still involved somehow—there’s only one Chap Weston, movie star. I know that bastard well. He makes me fuckin’ sick with how he put on this big air like he’s the world’s nicest guy when he’s really

a controllin’ jackass and his daughter ain’t much better. I straighten my baseball cap as I unfold my long body out of the car. I’m wearin’ jeans and an old Tshirt that probably shoulda been washed weeks ago. Maybe I shoulda did something with my beard and overgrown hair, but I ain’t here to impress Nat, I remind myself. Fuck it. There’s no getting through that ice. I turn to Knox. “Stay out here.” “Fuck that noise.” He grins at me, rubbing his hands. “I can’t wait to see the inside of this place.” “You steal shit, you buy it. All right?” “Thought we were here to put your ex in her place?” He cocks a bushy eyebrow at me. Damn it. I glance down at my hand, where I have a big R markered in across the back of my knuckles. It’s for “Ruthless” and it’s so I won’t forget. I’ve just always had a soft spot for Natalie. I’m just a big ol’ puss when it comes to her, and she wrapped me around her finger so easily back in high school. Even now, I feel a mixture of longing and anger when I think about how she led me around. What, you think I should stay here and marry you? I rub the R on my knuckles again. “Just stay quiet, then.” “Oh, I’ll be quiet,” Knox tells me, amused. I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans and head toward the ranch-slash-museum. As I get

closer, I can’t help but think the place looks rundown. Like a tourist trap that’s seen better days. The garish yellow of the ranch—which I don’t remember, so it must be new—looks faded near the windows. The building’s huge just like in my memories, but one of the windowpanes is cracked on the upper floor, and there’s a few tiles missing at the edges of the roof. The patio furniture set near the Western-style fountain looks old and faded, and the gravel parking lot’s got potholes you could lose a boot to. Whoever’s running this place needs his ass fired yesterday. Me and Knox head through the front door, and immediately, Knox makes a sound in his throat. The place is . . . well, it’s hideous. There’s old Hollywood memorabilia, along with kitschy decorations from movies and pictures of Chap Weston everywhere. Cheesy music plays overhead. It’s an assault on the senses. Off to one side, there’s an old-timey signpost that has two arrows, both pointing in the same direction. One says TICKETS, and the other says GIFT SHOP . I glance in that direction . . . and my heart stops. It’s her. Nat. She looks . . . different but the same. The girl I remember from high school had the prettiest little

round face with big blue eyes, a plush mouth, and a dimple that peeked out when I made her smile. I remember those things about her, and those aren’t any different. This Natalie is dressed like an extra in one of the corny movies her dad used to star in, though, and she’s behind the counter at the gift shop, talking to a couple. Her shiny dark hair is pulled into two girlish pigtails and she’s wearing an ugly-ass pink cowboy hat and matching fringed vest. She’s heavier than I remember, too. The Nat I remember was always dieting in high school, obsessed with her figure. This one’s given up on that, I think. She’s all lush curves and rounded breasts, and I gotta say, I like the change. Not that I should be liking anything about her, but I do. I rub the R on my knuckles again, because I feel a stab of anger and frustration. I should be pissed as hell that Natalie thought she was too good for me and ended up here. This is the same damn town we grew up in, and she’s working at a gift shop? How is that “too good” for a Price? Ain’t we at the same level? Even as I simmer with seven years of resentment, I note that she looks tired, though, and the interior of this place looks just as worn around the edges as the outside did. “You gonna do this?” Knox asks as we step into the tiny gift shop. He fingers a postcard, and I

imagine it’s gonna end up in his pockets before the day is over. I nod, swallowing hard. Damn. Seven years and it doesn’t matter—one look at her and I still feel like that dumbass schoolkid, thinking with his pecker. No amount of writing on my knuckles is going to erase that. I need to remember how she treated me. How she stomped on my heart and turned her back without giving a shit about how I felt. If she’d ever loved me like I’d loved her, she’d have never acted like that. I was the only one in love. I need to remember that. So I step forward and move toward the counter, where she’s listening intently to a family that’s talking to her. They’re tourists, obviously, wearing khaki shorts and T-shirts, and two bored kids moving through the gift shop like mini tornadoes. “I was under the impression we could get our picture taken with Chap Weston,” the woman is saying, and she’s got a stern frown on her face. “We came here specifically for that.” “Mr. Weston’s schedule depends on the day,” Nat says in a cheery voice that doesn’t sound like her at all. She gestures at a blackboard on the wall that has CHAP IS written across the top and a scribbly UNAVAILABLE written underneath in chalk. “I’m afraid he’s not going to be able to visit guests today. I really do apologize.”

“Well, is his daughter here, then? I was under the impression she ran this place. Maybe I could talk to her and explain how we’ve driven all the way from Nevada and we won’t be here tomorrow.” The woman’s tone is severe. “I’m his daughter.” “I . . . Oh.” The tourist laughs. “You don’t look like what I pictured.” “Too young?” Nat replies. “I get that a lot.” “No, that’s not it.” The woman makes an uncomfortable noise in her throat and Nat’s face looks strained. I wonder what the hell she thought Nat would look like. She’s as pretty as she ever was, and her blue eyes still haunt my damn dreams. If anything, she looks better now, because those full breasts of hers are makin’ the buttons on that white blouse strain hard, as if it’s a struggle to stay together and it’s just itchin’ to bust open and show the world her pretty tits and— And I’m gonna be spankin’ to that mental image tonight, I suspect. I scratch at my beard, frustrated at myself. I came here to put Nat in her place, not feed my jerk-off fantasies. “We just need one photograph with Chap Weston,” the mom is pleading. “Can’t you talk to him?” “I’m sorry, I can’t.” Natalie’s voice takes on a sugary sweet tone. “I really wish I could help, but I can’t.”

“Fat bitch,” the woman says, glaring at Nat. “We’re leaving. Come on, kids.” She turns on her heel and storms past us. I crack my knuckles, grinding my teeth. No one talks to a woman like that. Especially not my woman. But when I turn, Knox shakes his head at me. Right. Nat’s not my woman. Never was. She just used me. I scratch at my beard again, nervous. Shit. It’s harder to be a ruthless asshole than I thought. I wanna be an asshole to the wrong people. I glance over at the counter, and Natalie’s counting postcards, and then making notes in a ledger. She hasn’t bothered to look up at us. Her expression is blank, and I don’t know if it’s because of that monster of a mom that just left, or because she realizes it’s me. Maybe she just doesn’t give a shit at all if she’s driving customers off. Doesn’t matter. I’m not leaving until I’ve had my say. I’ve been bottling this up for weeks now, ever since Eddie’s funeral. Actually, I guess I’ve been bottling this since the night she told me I was dirt beneath her feet. That’s fine. All of this is fine. Cold, emotionless Natalie is the one I can deal with. I rub the R on my knuckles one more time and step forward, my jaw set.

Natalie Fat bitch. The words roll around in my head, ruining what little good mood I had. I’m used to the customers being cranky when they’re told they can’t meet Chap Weston. I’ve been argued with plenty over that one, but “fat bitch” is a new one. It’s not like I owed her an explanation, either. My dad’s having a bad dementia day, sorry. He can’t sit with you so your kids can crawl all over his eighty-seven-year-old lap for a crappy photo. Sad thing is, my dad would sit with them. He loves having his photo taken and loves meeting fans. It’s just that today, he wouldn’t know where he was or who anyone is, and I don’t like for that sort of thing to get out to the public. Pride is everything to my dad. If his name was ever “sullied” in his eyes, it would destroy him. I’ve always been very conscious of that. And, well, damn. I’m not that fat, I don’t think. At least, I hope not. I mentally stab a fork into the rude woman’s face. Of course she’d had to say that in front of other customers. Figures. I’ve ignored them for long enough, trying to compose myself. Nothing else I can do about it, so I glance up from the ledger where I’m pretending to take inventory and paste on my “customer service” smile. “Welcome to . . .” The words die in my throat.

I know that guy standing in front of me. It doesn’t matter that he’s got a big bushy beard, or that his hair’s overgrown and sticking out from underneath a ratty baseball cap. Doesn’t matter that he’s wearing an equally ratty T-shirt, and it sure doesn’t matter that I haven’t seen him in seven years. I’d know Clay Price anywhere. My heart pounds at the sight of him. God, he looks good. His shoulders are broader than ever, and even though he’s scruffy with that beard, he’s got a tan and his eyes are that same intense green they ever were. I can’t stop staring at him as he takes a step toward the little counter. What’s he doing back here? I’d heard that he’d left our small hometown a few days after I’d dumped him and he’d never returned. But here he is, looking delicious and so close I can touch him. And . . . a customer just called me “fat bitch” in front of him. Oh god. I can feel my face heating with shame. I’ve packed on a few pounds since high school, when I struggled with constant diets thanks to my overbearing stepmothers. I’ve decided that I prefer eating to starving, but as he gazes at me, I wish I was still that skinny size-two instead of a size eighteen. “C-Clay,” I stammer out. “Oh my god.” I glance behind him, and there’s a dark-haired, dark-

eyed guy about the same age with a bored look on his face. One of his brothers, maybe, judging by the way he holds himself. “I didn’t know you were in town.” “Driving through.” His voice is as sultry and slow as I remember, and I can feel parts of me warming up that haven’t felt warm since he left. “Surprised you’re still in town.” Him and me both. But I guess he doesn’t know what happened after he left. “Yeah,” I say lamely. A thousand excuses spring to mind, but all that screams through my head is the fact that I never texted him. Never, never. He still thinks I hate him. That I never wanted to marry him. That I was fine with him walking away. I want to scream at the awfulness of it. “Heard this place was a museum.” “Yeah.” I grab a postcard from the turnstile, my hands shaking, and hold it out to him. “Want to buy an admission ticket? They’re five dollars. Or a cookie? Oatmeal-walnut.” He just stares at me with that intense gaze. I feel like an idiot. I’m offering him cookies and a ticket to view my dad’s furniture. He must think I’m insane. But he’s polite enough. Clay glances around, then back at me. “Nah. Just wanted to come by and see if it was true you were here.”

My mouth goes dry and I lower the postcard. I’m not sure what that means. “If I’m here?” I echo, confused. “You were looking for me?” Clay nods, and then glances at his hand. He rubs his knuckles absently. “Seem to recall you saying you were gonna leave for Stanford.” Oh god. I remember that. Funny how it seems so long ago. He hasn’t forgotten, though. My stomach gives a queasy little lurch. “Long story.” “I’ll bet.” He studies me for a long moment, and then a hint of a smile curves his mouth. It’s not his regular smile, with its wide, white-teeth-displaying mischievousness. This one is something else, and it throws me for a loop. So much that I almost miss what he’s saying. “I’ll be back tomorrow with a proposal for you, if you’re interested.” And before I can ask what that means, he turns and walks back out of the gift shop.

Chapter Four

Clay “You didn’t ask her?” Knox states, giving me a curious look as we head back to the limo. “Why not?” “Need a night,” I tell him. I rub my knuckles, over and over again. I don’t feel ruthless. Hard to feel ruthless when she looks so pretty and soft and vulnerable. Fuck, now in addition to my regular dreams about Nat, I’m going to be dreaming about fucking those big tits of hers. Seeing her again was the best and worst thing that has ever happened to me. She didn’t look like I expected. Gift shop didn’t, either. The whole placed reeked of desperation and of someone that’s been forgotten, and that’s not something I associated with Nat. I remember her from high school, quiet and aloof in the crowd, always dressed in demure designer sweaters and wearing elegant jewelry, like she was going to a garden party instead of class. And I remember how much she liked kissin’.

Somehow if I’d have seen her with two kids hanging off her skirts and as the trophy wife of some small-town lawyer, that’d been all right by me. I could have offered my shitty deal and been done with her. If she’d have accepted it, I’d have known right then that she wasn’t the person I remembered. And if she didn’t, well, it’d be done one way or another. Maybe that’s why I didn’t say anything. Because I’m not ready to give up on my dream of Natalie Weston. She shouldn’t say yes to the deal I’m going to offer. If she does, I’ll know Nat’s changed and I can use her and get her out of my head. That’s what being ruthless is all about: using someone until I’m done with them. It’s what she did to me seven years ago, after all. She was fine with me as a boyfriend until Stanford came on the scene, and then she decided she was too good for me. Who’s too good for who now, I wonder?

Natalie I stare after his wide shoulders as he leaves, and it’s not until the doorbell jingles to signify that someone’s left that I race to one of the windows

and peer out, watching as he exits. He’s casually talking to his brother, and as I watch, they get into a waiting limo. A limo. Holy shit. Where did that come from? What did he mean by a proposal for me? Like . . . a wedding proposal? My heart thumps wildly. Surely not. He must have meant something else. If it was a wedding proposal, would he have acted so weird about it? Maybe it was business . . . but what could Clay want with my dad’s museum? “Jenny!” my father bellows from upstairs. Shit. I reach under the counter and pull out the sign I have made for such occasions, setting it on the counter. Be right back—we’re on the honor system! If you purchase something, please leave your cash in the jar. Not that anyone ever does, but I still have hope for humanity. It’s not ideal, but there’s no one that can watch the store but me. And there’s no one that can take care of dad but me. Since I can’t be in two places at once . . . it’ll have to do. That done, I race to the back stairs and head up them as fast as my wobbling legs will carry me— —Right into another warm puddle on the floor. My dad stands in the upstairs hallway, the back of his robe soaked. “Jenny?” he asks again. “Where’s that damn cat?” * * *

My father has a pretty rotten day. His dementia is worse today than usual, and when he gets done looking for the cat, he spends a few hours crying over the loss of my mother, Janelle. It’s heartbreaking to hear his sobs, because sometimes his memories resurface and feel fresh and new. He’s crying like she just died yesterday instead of twenty years ago, and it rips me apart. I’m torn between staying at his bedside and racing downstairs to watch over the gift shop. It’s a harrowing day, but I can eventually flip the CLOSED sign and turn the lights off. By that time, Dad’s asleep, I’m mentally worn to shreds, and I’m too tired to fix myself dinner. Instead, I just snag a couple of the oatmeal-walnut cookies that didn’t sell and head upstairs to my room, my phone in hand. I’m still reeling from Clay’s reappearance and what this means. I have to bounce this off of someone. I immediately pull up my best friend’s number and text her. Lexi’s the only one I still keep tabs with—we became friends a few years ago when she moved here and visited the museum. I think she’s the only person this small town finds weirder than me. NAT: You are not going to believe this. LEXI: Elvis stopped by the museum? NAT: Almost. It was Clay Price.

LEXI: . . . LEXI: I am shrieking at my phone over here. No Namaste on this end. NAT: Ooops, did I call during class? LEXI: It’s okay. I’ve lost my Zen . . . and my night appts canceled on me. Give me deets! I feel a twinge of guilt—Lexi’s as permanently broke as I am because she has a small yoga studio, and because it’s such a small town, she doesn’t get that many clients. I shouldn’t interrupt her when she’s working, but I’m rattled enough to be relieved that she answered anyhow. NAT: He showed up here at the museum. I looked up and there he was. He overheard a customer call me ‘fat bitch’ too. As if my day wasn’t bad enough. LEXI: omg LEXI: Did you punch that woman? NAT: I let it go. People are dicks. It makes me more upset that he heard her tho! NAT: I need to know of a way to lose weight overnight because he’s coming back tomorrow. LEXI: !!! LEXI: I am missing so many details here! Start over!

LEXI: Clay Price showed up. He say why? NAT: No. Just boom. I nearly fell over. One of his brothers was with him, I think. NAT: He didn’t say much. Just asked me if this place was a museum. And then he said he was going to be back tomorrow with a proposal for me. LEXI: Like . . . a romantic proposal? NAT: I don’t think so? He said it just like that—‘a proposal for you’. Maybe business? LEXI: Er okay. He a big fan of ur dad or something? NAT: I don’t think so? I think he kinda hates Dad. LEXI: Weird!!! NAT: I’ve never talked to him since he left. Never even Googled him. LEXI: Omg never?!? LEXI: Facebook? Anything? NAT: No. I didn’t want to know what happened to him. If I went on his Facebook and there were pics of him with the wife and kids, I think I’d die inside. LEXI: Ur still in love with him, aren’t u? NAT: I don’t have any right to be. I was the one that drove him off . . . LEXI: Don’t beat urself up. He didn’t want u to go to college remember?

NAT: But I said the shittiest things. LEXI: U were hurt. NAT: I guess. I still should have texted him to talk, and I never did. LEXI: U were occupied w/ ur dad. Stop beating urself up! NAT: Easy for you to say—he didn’t spend 7 years hating you! LEXI: U don’t know he hates u either. NAT: True. LEXI: Well I Googled him & it won’t make u feel better, so probably good u didn’t . . . A sick feeling crawls into my gut. He’s got to be married. I put my phone down, feeling suddenly light-headed at the thought. Clay Price, married. Clay Price, unavailable forever. I had my chance with him and I threw it away. He wanted to marry me and I laughed in his face. Oh god. I lie back on my bed and press my hands to my face, determined not to cry. Try as I might to forget, I know the exact moment my life turned to shit. It was that night that Clay Price and I broke up. Not that my life has ever been perfect or even normal. The fact that my father was sixty-two years old when I was born starts things off on a weird

foot, and my mom died when I was five. After that, my father married wife number five and she proceeded to spend my father’s fortune, give me a complex about how much I eat, and basically made me and my father miserable. She left when I was sixteen and my father decided he’d had enough of Hollywood, so he took me and the new girlfriend (who was only four years older than me) to Luka, Texas, to restore the ranch he’d bought so many years ago after making his first movie. I hadn’t known anyone, and everyone at school hated me. They thought I was a rich Hollywood snob. No one talked to me. No one was my friend. No one except Clay Price, a football player and a boy from the wrong side of the tracks. Everyone loved Clay almost as much as they hated me. It felt like fate bringing us together. The moment we met, we were hot and heavy. At least, he was. I thought he was teasing me by showing interest, and so I pushed him away for an entire semester before he was able to make his move. One night I was at a party with a bunch of popular kids, seated on a couch in the corner and wishing I was far away. A guy had come up and started harassing me, and Clay moved in and put his arm around my shoulders, and that was that. By the end of the evening, we were necking. By the end of the week, I was his girlfriend.

For the next year and a half of school, we were inseparable. I was Clay’s girlfriend, and he made me so incredibly happy. I didn’t care that he drove an absolute beater of a car. I didn’t care that his family lived in a trailer or that his four brothers were all from different mothers. Who was I to judge? My dad was old enough to be my grandfather, Hollywood weird, and wife number six was barely older than me. I kept Clay and my dad separated, though, because I knew my dad wouldn’t understand him. Chap Weston had been in Hollywood for so long that he was a snob. Didn’t matter that we were living in the middle of nowhere, Texas. He still had champagne taste, and that extended to people. Things came to a head after graduation. I still think of that night with a sick knot in my stomach. At the time, I was madly in love with Clay Price, and I’d intended on giving up my virginity to him very soon. We’d fooled around for months— lots and lots of fooling around—but had always kept it above the belt. I needed to be sure of everything before I went further, I’d told him, and he’d been content to wait, though it’d been more difficult for both of us lately. Our phone calls had gotten dirty, and our kissing had taken on a new intensity that both scared and excited me. It all went to hell that night. I watched the light die in his eyes and he turned his back on me.

Even now, seven years later, I feel like puking just thinking about it. That had been the worst moment in my life. And I knew it was a mistake and I still did it. I haven’t loved anyone since then. I’ve been alone and lonely and missing Clay. It’s been seven years of misery without him, and I’d give anything to go turn back time. To send a text the next morning and tell him we need to talk, no matter how crazy my life was with my father’s stroke. To go even further back and stop the awful, stupid argument we had before it ever started. But I can’t go back. And since I can’t, I don’t want to go forward, either. It’s why I’ve never looked Clay up online, never decided to hunt him down and apologize. I’m ashamed of how we split, and I don’t want to see what he’s been up to. I don’t want to move on. I still want him. And it hurts. I press my palms to my eyes, trying to will back the tears that threaten. If I didn’t know what happened to him, in a sense, he was still mine. Knowing that he’s moved on to someone else means that he’s gone for good. I feel . . . gutted. My phone buzzes with an incoming text. Then another. Then another. I’m sure Lexi’s thinking I’ve died, so I dash away the tears that slipped out and pick up my phone again.

LEXI: $$$$$$$$$ LEXI: $$$$$$$$$$$$ LEXI: $$$$$$ Huh? NAT: Is your key stuck? LEXI: No dumbass LEXI: He rich yo LEXI: Silly rich LEXI: Go google him. I’ll wait. Not . . . married? He might be, and maybe she just didn’t mention it. Even though my stomach feels like it’s in a knot, I pull up the browser on my phone and type in Clay’s name and “Texas.” I’m a little startled when a full page of links appears. And even more startled when a lot of them lead back to money and investing articles. I click on one, skimming it. I see Price Brothers Oil mentioned several times, and then a side business Clay’s working on financing called IntelligentCamo. There’s a Forbes article showing all five brothers, and a bunch of pictures of them on oil rigs or wearing hard hats. I . . . I don’t understand. I thought Clay went to go work roughnecking on a rig. How did he become an oil tycoon? He’s only twenty-five. It explains the limo they drove off in, though.

I Google again, this time looking for a different sort of answer—“Clay Price” and “wife.” No names pop up. He’s not married. Never has been. Some small part of him is still mine. I’m overwhelmed at how much sheer joy courses through me at that small realization. To think that Clay hasn’t married after all this time. To think that he’s returned . . . and he’s coming back to the museum tomorrow. I switch back to the text window. NAT: He’s not married! LEXI: Did you miss the part where he’s rich? NAT: I don’t care about that. Now tell me how I can lose five pounds overnight so he’s not grossed out how fat I got after high school. LEXI: Wrap your body in Saran wrap and sweat all night. NAT: What?? LEXI: You asked! Now tell me what you’re going to wear tomorrow for when he shows up again.

Chapter Five

Clay Today on my hand, I’ve written a big H for “hard.” Not my dick, although it’s been hard ever since I saw Nat’s curvy little self yesterday. It’s for my heart. I’ve got to be hard. Ruthless. Cold. I can’t fall for a pair of big blue eyes, no matter how much she wrapped me around her finger in the past. I need to remember that Natalie was cold as ice when we broke up seven years ago. She acted like I was trash. Now she’s the trash and I’m a billionaire. And that means I get what I want, no feelings attached. Funny how I still want her after seven years and all that fucking heartache. But I always have. I’ve never stopped dreaming of her body, of her gasping kisses, the way she felt against me. There’s never been anyone for me but her. Since I’ve got all this money, I’ve decided I’m going to fuck Natalie Weston. Not mentally—just physically. I’m going to take her in a bed, pull off

her panties, and fuck her . . . and hopefully get her out of my head forever. Back in high school, I never got to fuck Natalie Weston. At the time, I thought it was because she was a shy virgin, and I was content to wait. I loved Natalie, and she was my girlfriend. It didn’t matter how long it took for her to decide that it was time to have sex, because I knew she was going to be mine forever. She was worth waiting for. But then Natalie dumped me. I never got to claim her, never got to make her mine. Never got to sink into her and become one. Never got to bust my first nut inside a girl, either, though that was less important to me than losing Nat. As time went on, I figured I’d eventually forget her, meet someone else, and then lose my virginity. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with waitin’. Except I’ve never forgotten her, so I’m still a virgin at twenty-five. Seems wrong. All of this seems wrong, actually. With my money, though, I’m going to make it right. I don’t care if it costs all my billions, I’m going to fuck Natalie Weston and get her out of my head for good. Maybe once I’ve had her, I won’t care about her any longer. I trace the H on my knuckles again, thinking. Hard. Yeah. I can be hard. I can be ruthless. I just need to remember how she dicked me over. How she gave

me blue balls for almost two years when we were dating . . . and then decided I was too filthy to touch her precious Hollywood-royalty panties. I can’t wait to touch ’em now. I get out of the limo, indicating that my patient driver should wait awhile. Today, I ditched Knox and decided to fly solo. Having my brother there, light-fingering all the stuff in the rundown gift shop, hovering and listening in on the conversations? Just made me all nervous and weird. I don’t need nerves —I need to be focused. I even have a speech I practiced just for this moment. Natalie, I’m offering you a bargain. I’ve done the research on your father’s fortunes, and it’s clear that he’s spent every last dollar that he ever had from his movies. I know you’re broke. I know the upkeep on this ranch costs more than it brings in every month. I know exactly how much you owe the banks, and I’m prepared to make you a deal. I’ll save your family and your business, but you’ve got to give me what I want. Seems pretty cut-and-dried to me. No emotions, no relationship. Just a contract for business. She has something I want, and I’m willing to pay for it. I enter the front of the museum, even though it’s a full half hour before scheduled opening time. The bell on the door clangs obscenely loudly, and the front of the place is empty. Somewhere in the

distance, a vacuum is running and immediately shuts off the moment I enter. “Coming!” someone calls out, and my dick immediately responds at the sound of the female voice. I know who that is. I surreptitiously adjust my junk in my jeans, not wanting to be obvious. A moment later, a figure comes rushing out, swiping her hair back from her face. Her skin is dewy with a hint of sweat, but it doesn’t detract from the fact that Nat Weston still takes my breath away every time I see her. Her cheeks are pink, making her blue eyes seem even bluer, and her pretty mouth is highlighted by a bit of lipstick. Instead of pigtails, her dark hair is loose and tumbles around her shoulders in a wavy curtain. She wears a black top with a low-plunging, deep neckline that shows off her fantastic cleavage, and a pair of tight jeans that are just begging for me to rip ’em off of her. Nat blinks wide, and then a little smile curves her mouth. For a moment, she looks truly delighted to see me. “Hi again.” I rub my mouth, because this wasn’t what I was expecting. I thought maybe she’d be all wary of me coming around again. Or angry. I could deal with angry. This smiling beauty’s throwing me off my revenge game. “Hi.” I hesitate, then offer her my hand to shake. Seems like it’s either that or a hug,

and I don’t know if I can hug her without getting hard. She looks surprised at my gesture and hesitantly puts her hand in mine. Her skin is soft, her fingers delicate as they brush over my skin. “I didn’t picture us shaking hands when we met again,” she murmurs. The H on my knuckles stands out like a brand as I stare at our clasped hands. Hard. Ruthless. As cruel as she was to me. I need to remember. The thought makes my tone a little harsher than anticipated. “How did you picture it, then?” Nat pulls away, composing herself. She seems surprised by my harsh tone. “I don’t know.” She puts that fake, overly bright smile back on her face. “How can I help you, Clay?” She’s still close enough that I can see into the deep vee of her cleavage, and a bolt of lust fires through me at the sight. I need to not ogle her tits. I need to keep my cool if I want to get my way. No regrets. I resist the urge to rub the H on my knuckles and decide to launch into the speech I’ve prepared. “Natalie, I’m offering you a bargain.” Her brows furrow. “Huh?” “I’ve done the research on your father’s fortunes, and it’s clear that he’s spent every last dollar he ever made from his movies. I know you’re broke.”

Natalie reels as if struck. “You what? You came here to throw that in my face?” She gapes at me, clearly shocked. “Are you serious?” “I didn’t come to do that,” I say swiftly. I need to regain control of the conversation. Somehow when I ran this through my head, I didn’t picture the hurt look on Nat’s face. I thought she’d be angry. Indignant. Sneering. A wounded Natalie makes it harder to do this, and it shouldn’t be hard. She crushed me beneath one of her dainty heels seven years ago. Why can’t I do the same? I launch into the next section of my speech. “I know the upkeep on this ranch costs more than it brings in every month—” “You don’t know shit,” she retorts furiously, taking a step backward. Her hands go to her hips and she glares at me, clearly angry. “How dare you?” Good. Her anger makes this easier. I straighten, keeping my cool as I continue to speak. “I know exactly how much you owe the banks,” I say calmly. “And I’m prepared to make you a deal. I’ll save your family and your business.” Her expression goes soft again. “Wait, what? You will?” She reaches out and puts a hand on the wall, as if bracing herself. I nod. “But you’ve got to give me what I want.” Nat goes still. “I don’t understand. What . . . what is it you want?”

I cross my arms over my chest, and I know I’m looming over her, just a little. Not in a threatening way, I hope. Just want to exude authority instead of feeling like a slobbering schoolboy around her. “You agree to become my personal assistant for as long as I want you.” Her lips part and those big blue eyes blink up at me. “An . . . assistant? Like filing paperwork?” Damn, that’s such an innocent reaction. I can’t help but smile. Clearly my thoughts go to much dirtier places than hers. “I ain’t wanting that kind of assisting.” One dark brow arches and I watch as her jaw almost imperceptibly tightens. “So hand jobs in the back seat of the limo, then.” “If that’s what I feel like, yeah.” Actually, the mental image of Natalie putting her hands on my cock in the back seat of the limo is now being added as jerk-off fodder, because damn, that’s hot. “You’re going to accompany me and see to all my needs.” “You’re asking me to hook for you, you bastard.” She looks outraged, her breasts heaving magnificently against that low neckline. I give a casual shrug. “Maybe I am.” “Are you trying to take me down a peg for what I said to you?” The hurt has left her face, and all that remains is anger. Good. She looks like she’s

itchin’ to slap my face, and that makes me grin. She’s cute when she’s angry. “I’m not taking anyone down a peg. I just know what I want, and I’ve decided I’m going to go after it. I didn’t get it seven years ago and I figure now with our fortunes reversed, I’ve got money and you don’t. Maybe that’ll get me places I wasn’t able to get to seven years ago by being a nice, patient guy.” Nat gasps. “I can’t believe this! You are such a dick. I can’t believe this is what you’ve come to talk to me about.” “What, surely you don’t think I would marry you?” I sneer, throwing the hated words back in her face. She flinches, going quiet. And not for the first time today, I feel like the bad guy. Like I’ve done something wrong. “Nothing to say?” I bluster, because I don’t like feeling like this. “I’ve got something to say, all right.” Nat recovers quickly and her chin lifts. “I could take you to court and sue the hell out of you for what you’ve just said to me.” For some reason, I love that she’s responding so fiercely to my admittedly shitty proposal. I can’t stop the grin that’s spreading across my face, and it only widens the angrier she gets. “And I could hire the best lawyers possible, settle the case outside of court for a pittance, and then you’d be back to

square one. You’d still be broke and need bailing out.” “So your suggestion is that I just spread my legs for you and close my eyes!” “I would prefer that your eyes be open when you spread your legs for me,” I murmur, liking the mental image. “And I’d much rather you be into it. I seem to recall a time when we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.” “Th-that was seven years ago,” she stammers, clearly flustered by my change in tone. Her cheeks are turning pinker and she won’t meet my eyes. “Long before you and I split and then you came to me with this horrible deal.” “Is it such a horrible deal?” I ask. “We both get what we want.” “You’re asking me to sell myself to you,” she whispers. “How can you possibly think that’s a good deal for me?” “Once upon a time, you loved it when I touched you,” I tell her, stepping a bit closer. I want to reach out and touch her—her arm, her cheek, her chin, anywhere—but I force myself to shove my hands in the pockets of my jeans, not trusting myself to not grab her and just kiss the hell out of her. “I wanted to offer you this. Help me help you.” I expect her to retort that my deal isn’t helping her much at all, and that it helps me more than her. But she only gives her head a little shake. “Doesn’t

matter what I think. It could be the world’s best deal or the world’s worst deal. I still can’t take it.” “Because of me?” I don’t know if I’m disappointed or angry. Or both. She crosses her arms under her breasts, and it’s less angry and more like she’s hugging herself. “No. I have to take care of my father. He’s eighty-seven now and . . . not well.” Her expression grows distant. I remember her ancient father and her tooyoung stepmother. That was a creepy dynamic, and I’d always wondered how she handled it. I knew that back in high school she resented her father for his string of wives and the lack of attention he showed his daughter. Guess she got over it. But if that’s all it is . . . “He needs a caretaker? That’s easy enough to acquire.” She gives me a skeptical look. “It’s expensive.” I can’t believe she’s gonna poor-mouth me. If it weren’t so ridiculous, it’d be downright amusing. “You do realize I’m rich, right? You just tell me what your price is and I’ll pay it.” Natalie says nothing, but there’s a bleak look on her face, and her eyes are suspiciously shiny. Shit. This isn’t how I want things to go. I pull out a business card and offer it to her. “That’s my phone number and my email. Send me your list of

demands. The job’s exactly what you think it is. You’re my assistant for as long as I need assisting.” “You’ve watched too much Fifty Shades of Grey,” she mutters, but plucks the card from my fingers. I turn and leave, heading back out to the limo. Feels like eternity has passed, even though it might have been only five minutes. I’m not sure if that went well. She might hate my guts. She might turn me down flat. One thing’s for certain, though—after seeing her again today? Doesn’t matter her price. I’ll pay it. There’s nothing I want more than Natalie Weston in my bed. Nothing. When I’m back in the limo, my phone buzzes with an incoming text. My heart hammers in my chest as I click on the screen, and I’m disappointed to see it’s only Knox, not Nat. KNOX: How’d it go? How did it go? Good question. I can’t stop thinking about Nat’s breasts . . . and those shiny, sad eyes. I’m going to get what I want, I think. Natalie doesn’t have much room to bargain. Can’t help feeling like a dick, though. CLAY: I feel like an asshole.

KNOX: Ur not an asshole. Ur a scoundrel. A rogue. KNOX: Own it, Scoundrel. CLAY: Just a fancy word for asshole. KNOX: You gave her the offer. Up to her if she takes it. CLAY: And if she does take it, it’s because she has no choice. She’s broke enough to sell herself. Still makes me an asshole. KNOX: But then you’ll be a well-laid asshole. If ur gonna be an asshole either way, might as well get ur dick wet.

Natalie I stare at the mountain of overdue bills on the corner of my desk as it pours rain outside. All of the notices are brightly colored and scream things like “Past Due” or “Final Notice.” Business taxes, medical bills, repairs on the museum, property taxes, credit cards, invoices for souvenirs—all of them have been slowly piling up on my desk. I tackle them the best I can, but no matter what I do, the number owed seems to grow and grow. It feels like there’s no climbing out of this hole.

I make minimum payments, only to have the interest eat me alive. One bill gets paid off and something new appears. If we pay off the air conditioner we had to have replaced last year, the car breaks down, or a wheelchair ramp needs to be updated. Dad fell six months ago, and I’m still paying the hospital bills for that one, because the insurance company says it wasn’t truly an emergency. It’s just one frustrating thing after another. I can lift my chin, keep my head above water, and keep going . . . Or I can sell myself to my high school boyfriend. The thought is both loathsome and wildly appealing at the same time. God, how many times have I imagined having sex with Clay? How many times did I regret that I never gave up my virginity to him? How many times have I pictured tackling him and hopping into his bed with all the gleeful passion I’d felt for him? For Clay to demand it for money . . . it changes things. He’s not the sweet, laughing boy I fell in love with. The person that showed up wears his face, but he’s hard and cold and a little cruel. I don’t know what to think. This is worse than Clay never coming back into my life, ever. I tilt my head back, closing my eyes. I need a sign that what I’m doing is the right thing. That

staying the course and keeping my pride means I can get us out of this hole. That I shouldn’t sell myself into my ex-boyfriend’s bed. That it’s just money and it can’t buy me happiness. That I’d be trading my self-esteem and self-worth away and it’s not worth it. It’s wrong and— Something drips on my forehead. I squeeze one eye open and peer up at the ceiling. There’s water damage, a yellowish stain on the ceiling. As I examine it, another fat droplet of water falls and splashes on my forehead. I sit up, wiping away the wetness. That wasn’t the sign I wanted. “Natalie?” My father’s quavering voice floats down the stairs. I jump to my feet. “Coming!” The bills and all my worries will have to wait a bit longer. I grab a pot from the kitchen, put it on my desk chair, then head up the stairs, ignoring how much they creak. My father’s seated upright in his bed, his blankets tucked at his waist, and for a moment, he looks so cheery and so normal that my heart squeezes. I can’t help but smile at him. We’ve never been close, but when he smiles . . . I dearly wish we were. I wish he were the dad I always wanted instead of the one I got. “Hi, Dad,” I say as I shut the door behind me. “What’s up?”

He gestures at the chair next to his bed. “I need a favor, my dear.” “Of course.” My father knows I’d do anything for him. I’m encouraged by his mood—and the fact that he called me Natalie. Maybe he’s going to have a good, coherent spell for a few days. Dad nods. “I need you to run through my lines with me.” “Your lines?” I echo, my heart sinking. “Yes. That reading is tomorrow and you know what a stickler Jimmy is. He doesn’t like it when the actors show up and don’t know the characters.” He gives his head a little shake and then waves a hand at me. “Your mother is busy so I need you to help me with it.” “Oh,” I say softly. “Why don’t you start?” My father presses a hand to his chest and begins a meaningful, heartfelt speech about the perils of war. I’m sure it’s from a movie that wrapped decades ago, just like I’m sure my father’s living in that moment again. He thinks my mom’s alive. He thinks he’s still acting. He’s not getting any better. Hot tears pour down my cheeks as my father waves a hand at me, encouraging me to reply, but when I don’t, he just continues on, happy as could be, lost in his own little world. This is my sign, I think. I can’t do this.

I can’t keep it all together. I’ve been trying and trying and the only thing I’m managing is to stop the quicksand from pulling us under quite so fast. Dad needs someone at his side night and day, or he’s going to hurt himself again. The business—and the ranch—can’t be managed by just one person. And me . . . I need a hero. But since all I’ve got is Clay Price, I’m going to have to make do. * * * NAT: Lexi, I’m going to do it. LEXI: You’re going to take his indecent proposal? This is just like that movie! What was it called? NAT: Indecent Proposal? LEXI: Ha! Right! In all seriousness, what made you decide to go for it? NAT: We made out a lot in high school. I planned to give him my virginity then. I guess it’s not much different than doing it now. LEXI: Except he morphed into a mighty asshole between now and then. You sure about this? NAT: Of course I’m not sure, but I’m running out of options. Dad’s completely lost

lately and I’m afraid he’s going to hurt himself again. I can’t watch him and the museum. I’ve had to leave the honor jar out on the counter for most of the day today, and the only thing it got me was a not-so-startling realization that people have zero honor. LEXI: Aww :( LEXI: Ur my friend, Nat. I hate to see you give up on yourself like this. I can loan u some money. NAT: You goober. NAT: You’re the only person I know that’s as broke as me. LEXI: Yes, but some foolish bank sent me a credit card through the mail! Mwa-haha! NAT: It’s sweet of you to offer, but no. I’m going to do this. It’ll solve all my problems. Girls sell their virginity online all the time now, right? This is . . . sort of like that. It’s just that I know who’s buying. LEXI: I guess. I still don’t like it! NAT: I don’t, either, but I’m out of options. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go wrap my body in Saran wrap to try and sweat out five pounds before Clay sees me naked. LEXI: Apple cider vinegar b4 every meal 2!! Works!! LEXI: And make your price a good one! He’s got billions!

LEXI: And don’t shave the bush! Fuck him! Go Sasquatch on his ass! NAT: Lol—I love you girl. LEXI: Love you too. XOXO NAT: Thanks for not trying to talk me out of it. LEXI: Why would I? Like u said, it solves all ur problems. I might not like it, but I get it. LEXI: Just keep me posted! NAT: You know I will! * * * NATALIE: Is this Clay’s phone? CLAY: It’s me. Have you come up with your price? NATALIE: You just get right down to things, don’t you? CLAY: I know what I want, yes. NATALIE: I’ve scanned in my father’s hospital bills and attached them via email to the address you sent me. I will expect those to be paid in full. CLAY: And? NATALIE: And there’s some other debt that I also have, attached in a second email and itemized. Again, those will need to be paid in full. There’s also a card for a live-in nursing

attendant service, and that will need to be arranged for the length of time that I’ll be “servicing” you since I won’t be here to take care of my father myself. CLAY: Go on. NATALIE: That’s it. I accept your deal. CLAY: You’re not asking for money for yourself? No millions to keep you in the lifestyle you’re accustomed to? NATALIE: First of all, you’ll see that my father’s medical expenses aren’t exactly cheap. And second of all, I don’t know who you think I am that I’d try to shake you down for as much as humanly possible. I’ve done the math and this is the price I feel comfortable asking. It’s all detailed in your email. CLAY: First of all, I expect a shakedown. I’m bargaining for sex here. My end isn’t fair and I don’t expect yours to be, either. CLAY: Second of all, as to who I think you are? I thought I knew, but that changed right after graduation, remember? NATALIE: You’re an ass. And okay, fine, I want a million dollars on top of everything else I’ve asked for. Happy? CLAY: I’ll be arriving at 4 pm sharp on Monday with contracts for our deal and

payment arrangements. Be waiting with a suitcase.

Natalie It’s done. I don’t know how to feel. I’m a bundle of emotions that are all vomiting to get out. I’m sick at heart that I’ve stooped to selling myself. I’m relieved that the mountain of bills will be handled. I’m secretly looking forward to a few days away from my dad and the endless caretaking. I’m ashamed that I feel like that at all. I stare up at the ceiling of my bedroom and feel like the world’s worst daughter and the whore of Babylon both. It’s not a fun combination. But whatever I feel doesn’t matter. I’m doing this. Clay will get me in his bed, humiliate me or whatever he plans on doing with me, and then he’ll let me go home. I’ll be done with him and I’ll have enough money that I can breathe without feeling like the world’s about to crash down on me. It’s awful, but I’m kind of looking forward to that part. I just need to get through the awful “humiliation sex” part. Because that has to be why Clay wants me this much, right? He’s determined to

fuck me and make me regret how I dumped him back after high school. It’s got to be revenge. I shiver a little, thinking about how he stares at me. There’s an intensity to it that wasn’t there seven years ago. Maybe it’s the beard that makes him look a lot rougher and like he’s got an edge. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s gone from a rangy, goodlooking teenager to a tall, sculpted man who’s got broad shoulders that can’t be hidden even by the world’s rattiest T-shirt. He looks twice as good as he did seven years ago—despite the scruffy beard and clothes—and I look like a roly-poly version of myself. I get up from the bed and move to the fulllength mirror in my room, studying my body. Nothing looks like it used to. Back in high school I had almost no breasts, a small butt, and a tiny waist. Now I practically spill out of my clothing on both ends, and I wince, hefting my boobs in my hands. Guys like a girl with curves, but I think I’ve gone straight from “curvy” to “pillowy.” Not a good look, especially when I was so lean back in high school. I think of the cookies downstairs . . . and then I think of the Saran wrap Lexi mentioned. Shit. Maybe I have time to sweat out the five pounds before Monday. Not that five pounds is going to make a dent, but I’ll feel a little better about myself naked if I lose them.

And then I panic. Oh god. Clay Price is going to see me naked. This is going to be the longest weekend of my life.

Chapter Six

Clay Sunday nights, we all head over to Boone’s fancypants house so Ivy can cook us dinner and we can pretend to be a normal family. We gather around the long mahogany table, scrape the dirt off our boots, and try to be polite. Ivy likes polite, and Boone likes whatever Ivy likes. Most nights it ends in chaos, like the time that Gage and Knox pushed Seth’s face in a plate of spaghetti and then a fistfight broke out. Tonight’s pretty quiet, though. I been sippin’ my beer, watching the others as they chat about a weird house Ivy sold this last week, wonderin’ when I should break the news to them that I’m paying my high school sweetheart to have sex with me. Knox keeps glancing over at me from his side of the table, and I ignore his ass because I’ll speak up when I’m good and ready. It’s my little brother, Seth, who decides he needs to front me out, though. “You’re quiet tonight, Clay. Ain’t like you.”

“Ain’t it?” I say mildly, playing with my beer bottle. “Normally you don’t shut the hell up,” he says with a cocky grin. Knox just smirks and grabs another piece of bread. “This pot roast is bangin’, Ivy.” “Why, thank you, Knox.” She beams at him and then gives me a concerned look. “They’re right, though. You’re very quiet, Clay. Is anything wrong?” “Just thinking up baby names,” I tease. It’s a running joke with her and I—I keep coming up with the worst names possible and she keeps shooting ’em down all polite-like. “Read somewhere it’s popular to name the baby after historical figures. Thought Genghis would be a good name.” Ivy makes a face. “No.” “Abraham?” I ask. “Or Lincoln?” “No and no.” She shoots Boone a help-me look, but he just reaches over the table and rubs her belly, all proud. “Eisenhower?” “Dumbass, you can’t even spell Eisenhower,” Gage tells me between bites of pot roast. “It’d have to be something easy for you. Like Ford.” “I like Ford,” I say mildly. “Good truck.” “I’m not naming the baby after a truck,” Ivy says patiently. “And you’re very good at changing

the subject, Clay, but I’m onto you. What’s the matter?” “Ain’t nothin’ the matter,” I confess, and take another swig of my beer. All of us have bottles in front of us—mostly because you can’t take the country out of the boy—but Ivy’s drinking water. I finish the beer and get to my feet. “Gonna get a refill. Anyone else?” “Sit down and spill,” Boone tells me. “You’re hidin’ something.” “Yeah,” Knox says, a sly grin on his face. “You should tell everyone what’s going on.” Shithead. I rub at my hair, wishin’ I had my hat on so I could hide my eyes. “So, uh, you know how last year Boone bought up all them properties to impress you? ’Cause he had the money to throw around and he figured, why the fuck not?” Ivy’s brows go up and Boone’s go down. My brother probably thinks I’m gonna say something to piss Ivy off. He’s been all Papa Bear ever since she got pregnant and it don’t take much to set her off. “Go on,” Ivy says. “Well, I thought I’d skip buyin’ myself a house and a golf course. I went to my ex-girlfriend’s house and told her I’d pay off her debt if she’d be my personal assistant for a while.” I feel all weird bein’ on my feet and everyone else sitting. Feels all weird to be the one makin’ a big proclamation instead of tryin’ to smooth things over, too. “‘Cept I

didn’t really mean assistin’, I meant fuckin’. Anyhow, I’m gonna be throwin’ a few mil her way and just figured if anyone saw her hangin’ around, that was the situation.” Ivy’s jaw drops. Gage snickers. Knox just grins into his pot roast. Seth cocks his head at me, confused. “Dude, hookers are waaay cheaper than that.” “She ain’t a hooker,” I tell Seth, arms crossed. Though Nat did say the same thing. “She’s an assistant.” “She gonna assist you into her snatch?” Gage asks slyly. Knox elbows him, smirking at the joke. I scowl at my brother, because that ain’t funny. They shouldn’t be laughing at Nat. She might be stuck-up and the one that broke my heart, but I won’t tolerate anyone talking shit about her. “Enough.” Everyone looks surprised at my response. I’m normally the one to laugh off anything, but some things are off-limits. Nat’s mine, even if it’s just to get my revenge on her. And I’m not gonna allow that sort of thing. “Surely there are better ways to ask a girl out,” Ivy begins, casting a helpless look in Boone’s direction. “Don’t know, don’t care. This works for me.” I cross my arms over my chest. “What good’s all this

money gonna do if it just sits in a bunch of coffee cans buried in the woods?” “Oh dear,” Ivy says softly. “You bank the same way your brother does.” Boone just gives me a canny look. “This the one?” I haven’t mentioned anyone’s name, but Boone knows exactly who I’m talking about. There’s only ever been one ex-girlfriend for me that ever counted. No one before her has a face—and there was no one after her. I just nod. He rubs his chin. “Good luck. Don’t spend too much on ’er.” “Boone!” Ivy sounds shocked. My brother leans over toward his wife. “Now, baby, you know we’re not nice guys. His money, and he’s got more of it than he knows what to do with. Why can’t he spend it the way he wants?” Ivy’s exasperated sigh echoes in the enormous dining room. Boone’s got a point, though. It’s been seven years and I ain’t no happier with a shit-ton of money and no Natalie. Might as well give some of that money away and see if I can get Natalie out of my system. Ruthless, I remind myself. Hold nothing back. Give it everything I’ve got, because you never know when it’s going to be gone.

I’ve fucked around enough. Seven years is entirely too long to wait. Natalie’s gonna be mine. I don’t care how much I have to pay.

Chapter Seven

Natalie When Monday rolls around, I pack my suitcase and quietly wait for Clay to arrive. My palms are sweaty with nerves, and I can’t stop wiping them on my jeans. Even though I’ve been obsessing over what I’m going to wear when he arrives, I’ve settled on a black cardigan over a pale pink blouse and jeans. My hair’s pulled into a simple tail over one shoulder and I curled the ends. Makeup? I might have spent two hours perfecting my “nude” and “barely there” look. I don’t want to make it seem like I’m trying too hard, after all. In reality, I want him to think I’m pretty. I don’t want him to look at me and think I’m fat or overthe-hill. One of us changed for the worse since high school, and it wasn’t him. I shouldn’t care what he thinks . . . but realistically, I also shouldn’t be signing a contract to give myself to him, and I’m doing that, so I feel like logic has gone out the window anyhow.

Waiting around after I’m done with my makeup and hair makes me restless, so I go upstairs and check on my dad. He’s asleep, his face peaceful, and I fight back a surge of emotional tears at the sight. I’m doing this for him. I’ve done everything for him, just how he wants it. I could wake him up and tell him that I’m going to be leaving for a while, but I don’t know that he’ll remember even if I do tell him. It’s hard to think about leaving, though— will my dad be taken care of correctly? Will the nurse that’s hired be any good? Will he miss me? Will he be all right if I’m not here to sit with him when he’s upset or confused? My heart squeezes a little at the thought and I have to fight hard not to cry. It’ll ruin all the eye makeup I’ve spent an hour laboriously applying. I head back downstairs on quiet feet and notice that there’s a couple of trucks parked in the museum’s small gravel parking lot. One looks like it’s for roofing, and another for carpentry. Huh. It’s not unusual for us to get people that came down the wrong exit and use our parking lot to turn around, but these are parking as if they intend to stay. Curious. As I watch, another truck pulls up. I’m . . . confused. Are all these contractors coming to visit our museum? They don’t seem the type. Normally we get tourists, not . . . handymen? I’m even more confused when yet another truck pulls up, this one with an attached trailer. When a

riding lawnmower starts up and several men get out of the back of the truck, it’s time to head outside and see what’s going on. As I go outside, more people emerge from their trucks. It feels like there’s a swarm of handypeople descending on me. “This the roof?” one asks, squinting up at the house. “Do you see another?” I ask, incredulous. The men chuckle, even as another one moves past me on the walkway with buckets of what look like paint and rollers. The lawn crew fire up edgers and machinery roars to life while someone else hands me a clipboard. “Do you prefer this look for your gardens or this one?” I glance down at the pictures attached to the clipboard. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand what’s going on.” “Mr. Price sent us,” says another man, coming forward. He’s balding with glasses and has a friendly look on his face. He’s also wearing headto-toe denim, and offers me a big hand to shake. “I’m Bill Slocum and I’m going to be overseeing this particular project.” “Project?” I echo. “Yes’m. Mr. Price wants this place cleaned up. The grounds are to be revamped, the parking lot poured with concrete, the building reroofed, repainted, the lighting improved . . .” He releases

my hand and taps the clipboard tucked under his arm. “Among a few other things. As I said, I’m the project manager and I’ll be overseeing everything. If you have questions, just let me know.” “Oh, I have a question,” I say. “Who’s paying for all this?” But I know that answer already. This wasn’t part of our agreement, and I’m half angry that he’s being so high-handed . . . and half relieved that the problems are going to be taken care of. I didn’t ask for any of this, but Clay’s always been thoughtful. He must have seen how the place was falling apart and decided he needed to step in. “Mr. Price is handling all the bills. Is there anything in particular we need to focus on?” “I . . . ah . . .” I get distracted when I see someone post a big CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS sign at the far end of the parking lot. “Who says we’re closing?” “I’m afraid with all the things we’ll be doing to improve the building, the business will need to be closed for at least a week.” Bill Slocum holds a business card out to me. “I will be on call constantly and on-site at all times, so you feel free to let me know if there’s something you want us to tackle that we’re not already handling.” “Plumbing,” I blurt out, and then feel myself blushing. “And, um, is Mr. Price going to pay for my lost revenues?”

“That’s my understanding, yes, ma’am. And the plumber’s already here. We’ll get him to take a look at everything.” I bite my lip. I don’t want to give in to this tidal wave of people, but at the same time, I know the ranch is in disrepair and half of the stuff that should be working doesn’t. The stove hasn’t heated for months, and there are certain lights that I don’t turn on anymore because I worry about the wiring. I should mention all of this, of course, but what comes out is, “My father. He’s not leaving.” Mr. Slocum nods. “I understand that there is an elderly gentleman that lives in the house. Mr. Chap Weston, is it?” He grins. “I loved his movies as a kid.” “I don’t know about all these repairs,” I confess, worried. I bite down on a fingernail, thinking. “Dad gets easily confused and he can’t leave the premises. He’s comfortable here.” “We’re well aware of the situation, Ms. Weston, and we’re going to work around your father’s schedule, I promise. If he takes a nap, all the equipment goes off. My boys already understand how it’s going to be and they’ll be well compensated for their time. Don’t you worry.” This all sounds too good to be true. “I see.” “Once we’re finished with the renovations, I’m told that Mr. Price will want to move on to stage two of the project.”

“Stage . . . two?” “A grand reopening and a relaunch of the museum.” Mr. Slocum looks pleased at the thought. “I’m in charge of that, too. I’ll be working with the marketing people and the inventory folks. Don’t you worry about a thing.” “Inventory folks . . . ?” “For the gift shop, of course.” He steps aside as a crew of men hustle past us up the narrow walkway to the house. “And I know the museum is filled with Hollywood memorabilia. My crew’s photographing and cataloging as we speak. Everything is going to be in the shape it was when we arrived, I promise.” I don’t know what to say. I’m speechless. It’s like Clay’s thought of everything. I wonder what all this “thoughtfulness” is going to cost me. Hand jobs? Blow jobs? Anal? Eeek. I haven’t even given away my virginity and anal’s already on the table? I clench my butt cheeks at the thought, a little worried. I know I’m making a devil’s bargain, and the enormity of it is just now starting to hit me. I’m going to be giving Clay Price everything. He’s going to own me until he’s tired of me. I . . . wonder if it’s too late to back out. Scratch that. I already know it’s far too late. I move to one

side of the walkway, mystified as a fleet of people continue to descend on the grounds of our ranchslash-museum. All I can think about is what this is going to cost me. I promised to have sex with Clay in exchange for a bailout on my father’s bills and a few past-due credit cards. This wasn’t part of the plan, and I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. “Ms. Weston?” A female voice calls out my name, and I turn. Three women approach, all dressed in scrubs. They look kind, and the one at the front beams at me. “I’m Alice, and I’m going to be one of your father’s caregivers.” “One of?” I feel like I’m just echoing everyone right now, but this is all overwhelming me. “What do you mean?” “Mr. Price called in to our service and explained your father needs elderly care. We—all of us, including Mr. Price—feel that to ensure your father is as taken care of as can be, he should have roundthe-clock care. He’s going to have a day nurse and a night nurse—” “And a weekend nurse,” chirps a bubbly one at the back. Alice nods. “So we can be sure that he’s happy and safe at all times.” One of the nurses claps her hands, beaming. “Oh, this is such a privilege. I’m such a fan! I can’t wait to hear his stories. I bet he has hundreds of them.”

“He’s still living some of them, I’m afraid,” I say, and hate that my voice is getting thick in my throat. Damn it. “He has dementia, and he fell down the stairs six months ago, so his hip bothers him, and—” “We’re used to that sort of thing,” Alice says, and puts an arm around my shoulders. “Now, don’t get all teary-eyed. I can’t believe you’ve been doing all this yourself and running the business. You must be exhausted.” Exhausted doesn’t begin to cover it. I just continue weeping, because I feel like someone realizes how hard it is to keep it all together, and how much I’ve struggled. Three nurses. An entire crew of people. All because I can’t hold together all the pieces just by sheer will alone. “Now, now, honey,” Alice says, pulling out a tissue from a pocket. She’s got a soft Southern drawl that my father will love. “You’re smearing your mascara. Can’t have that.” Since I’ve been bought lock, stock, and barrel, no, I guess we can’t have that after all. “Now, come, why don’t you tell me more about your father and give me a list of his medications?” Alice pats my back and gently steers me toward the house.

Clay I tug at the collar of the suit Ivy suggested I wear today. I’d much rather be in a T-shirt and jeans, but after hearing all the details of my “grand” plan, Ivy’s stuck her nose in and made all kinds of suggestions. They sounded good at the time, but the longer these buttons cut off my air and suppress my will to live, the more antsy I get. This ain’t me. The suit, the tie, the jacket, the limo—none of this shit is me. The only thing Ivy couldn’t get me to do was cut my beard. I ain’t getting all “manscaped” like Boone just to impress a lady. I threw enough money at Natalie that she’ll be impressed regardless. She’ll have to be. Of course, it’s dumb that I’m nervous. This is Natalie. I knew her way back when. And now I’m throwing enough money in her direction to buy a city, not just a ranch museum. She should be grateful. And then the moment that thought crosses my mind, I feel like an asshole. Nat ain’t a hooker. She’s cornered by debt and I’m using it against her. I’m being a controlling dick to get what I want. There’s a big S on my knuckles today. “Scoundrel.” Knox said the word at dinner and I decided I like it. It sounds nicer than what Ivy called me when she first heard about this plan. She

said I was a bastard, and she ain’t wrong. This is definitely a bastard move. But bein’ Nice Clay didn’t get me into Nat’s pants. Scoundrel Clay is ninety percent there already. I just had to figure out her price tag. I rub the S and think about Natalie. Her lush curves and the rounded swell of her hips. I decide I like all them curves. I can’t stop thinking about ’em and what they’ll feel like to touch. What her full tits are gonna feel like when I palm them. What a handful her bouncy ass will be. Fuck, now I’m getting hard. I rub my face and try to think about other things as the limo parks. Last thing I want to do is greet her with a handshake and a boner. Won’t be a show of much control there. Someone taps on my window to get my attention. Shit, I’m sweating. I wipe at my brow and tug at my collar again, feeling like a schoolboy. A quick glance shows me that it’s one of my lawyers, though. I roll the window down and glare at him. “What?” The man purses his lips and leans in. “She wants a clause added to the contract before she’ll sign it.” Oh? Digging for more money? I shoulda guessed. My spirits sink. I never thought Nat was a gold digger, but then again, I never thought she was a snob all that time she was leading me around by

my dick, and I was sure wrong about that. “The money’s set in stone already. I ain’t goin’ up in price.” I’m already spending more than she asked for. Guess that was stupid on me for bein’ generous. Had a moment of remorse. Won’t have another. The lawyer looks all choked up, though. Like he’s swallowed somethin’ funny. “It’s not about money, Mr. Price.” He leans in closer, so close that his face is practically in my damn window. “She wants a ‘no anal’ clause in the contract.” What? That’s the strangest thing. “Did she say why?” “I would think that is obvious, sir.” The man’s face looks redder by the moment. I think for a moment, amused. So she thinks that just taking her to my bed ain’t gonna be enough for me? That I’m gonna need to stake a claim in every hole? While the thought has merit—and makes my dick hard—I ain’t into anything that will turn her off. I know she likes to be touched. Anal wasn’t even on the table . . . until now. “Tell her no deal.” The lawyer frowns. “It’s a deal-breaker for you?” “It is now.” It ain’t that I want it, but I don’t want her callin’ the shots. This is my show. And Scoundrel Clay don’t back down. Plus, I kinda wanna see how she reacts. She gonna tell me no?

The lawyer looks as if he’s swallowed a lemon. “Very well. I’ll be back with her answer.” “Come back when you’ve got signed contracts,” I tell him, deciding that I’ll be Scoundrel Clay today. Normally it’d kill me to be such a dick, but I’m tryin’ ta turn over a new leaf. I don’t want to end up like Eddie in that coffin, with a buncha regrets hangin’ over my head. I’ve been the peacemaker for too long. The Price brother that never makes waves. The one that tries not to get ruffled feathers over anything. Fuck all that. The next five minutes are the longest of my damn life. I sit there, drummin’ my fingers on the leg of my new Armani suit and waitin’ to see if Little Miss Natalie is gonna turn me down flat, or if she’s gonna decide she likes a dick in her ass more than bein’ broke. Seems to take forever for someone to come back to the car. I rake a hand through my hair, makin’ it all shaggy again instead of slicked down. Aw, fuck. Might as well give up on bein’ a scoundrel in a suit, then. I rip the expensive tie off my neck, glad it’s a clip-on, and then open the collar of the shirt. At least now I can freakin’ breathe. Through the tinted glass, I can see someone approaching. The person’s not as tall as the lawyer, and the curves and bouncing hair tell me that it’s exactly who I want it to be. I can’t stop the grin

that spreads across my face, and I open the car door and get out to greet her, hoping I ain’t about to get a slap in the mouth. But nope. Natalie pauses as the car door opens, then thumps my chest with a stack of papers—the contract—and then climbs into the car. Guess that means she signed. I hand the contract off to one of the nearby lawyers. “This is yours. Any changes made that I don’t know about?” “No, sir. She signed.” The lawyer takes it as if I’m handing him a snake. I grunt. “Good. Send me your bill.” I get back into the car and close the door, and then I’m alone with Natalie. And damn, she’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever fucking seen. Her arms are crossed under her breasts and her tits are heaving from sheer outrage. Fuckin’ magnificent. Her cheeks are flushed and she looks pretty and fresh and innocent, and I realize I’m gonna get into those panties, after all, and my cock grows achingly hard. She signed. She’s mine. But she gives a toss of her dark hair and glares at me. “What the fuck, Clay?” “Nice to see you, Natalie,” I drawl. “You’re lookin’ mighty fine this morning.”

“Stuff the sweet Southern-boy act,” she snaps at me. “Why won’t you agree to the changes I wanted in the contract?” I’m fascinated by the pink sheen of her lips. They look all plump and kissable and I’m havin’ a hard time concentratin’ on what she’s sayin’. It sinks in a moment later, and then I laugh. “What, you don’t like the fact that I’m payin’ for all of you?” Her cheeks turn bright red and she shifts in her seat, clearly embarrassed. “That wasn’t on the table!” “You’re right, it wasn’t . . . until you mentioned it. Now it is. So thanks for that.” Nat’s jaw clenches. She is adorably cute and I realize in this moment how much I’ve fucking missed her the last seven years. It hits me like a ton of bricks and I’m glad I’m seated, because I feel staggered. Even her anger makes me hungry for her. I don’t mind her spittin’ at me, as long as I’m in her presence. You stupid ass, I chide myself, and rub the S on my knuckles. She used you. Now you get to use her. “I’m glad we came to an agreement,” I drawl. “This isn’t an agreement as much as it’s a hostage situation! You have me over a barrel!” “Not yet, but that can be arranged.” I force myself to be nonchalant, stretching my legs out in the limo. I’m seated across from her, and even

though the back cab area of the car is probably bigger ’n my first bedroom, it feels too small. I’m antsy, and it’s all because I’m in her presence. “Anything else you want to offer up?” She huffs and her pretty blue eyes are flashing murder at me. “I’m almost afraid to speak.” “But you signed, didn’t you?” I point out, hardening my resolve against her. Doesn’t matter that she’s cute. Doesn’t matter that she smells fantastic and my cock’s aching at her nearness. I’m the one in charge and I’m not giving my power up. Not when I’m finally getting what I want. Natalie spreads her hands. “How can I not sign? Like I said, you have me over a barrel. You have all these people showing up to fix things that I’ve been trying to ignore for forever, and you got my father not one but three nurses so he can have round-theclock staff and . . .” She swallows hard and then pulls out a tissue and starts dabbing at her eyes. “Shit.” I stare at her, horrified. “You cryin’?” I don’t want her cryin’. I want her spittin’ nails at me, all furious and angry and magnificent so I can be a ruthless bastard to her. “No,” she says quickly and tilts her head back, blinking rapidly. “I’m fine.” She ain’t actin’ fine. It’s clear she’s about to cry. It’s also clear she don’t wanna cry in front of me. Hell, I don’t want her cryin’, period. Last thing I

want is to have her all weepy while I’m trying to get into her panties. I need to get her all good and angry again. “Good, because it’s about time I get to start enjoyin’ my side of the bargain.” Nat freezes in place and looks over at me with those shiny eyes. Her posture isn’t sad anymore, though—she’s practically bristling. “Oh?” I pat the seat next to me. “Come gimme a kiss.” Her mouth opens and her lips part. She makes a small, frustrated noise. “You’re serious?” If it stops her from cryin’ and gets her back to angry? Fuck yeah I’m serious. “Didn’t buy you to sit there and look pretty, baby.” “Don’t call me baby. And you’ve turned into a major asshole, Clay Price.” I shrug. “Guess you made me one.” Her back goes ramrod stiff and she gets to her feet, ducking her head in the limo’s low-roofed cabin, and practically storms the few feet over to my side before dropping heavily next to me. There’s a mutinous scowl on her pretty face but she ain’t cryin’. Good. I like that.

Chapter Eight

Natalie Good lord, Clay is such a jerk. I can’t believe I’m having to go along with this. It’s my own fault, though. I signed that contract. I knew what I was getting into. Liking it—or liking him—isn’t part of the equation. All I can do is grit my teeth, tolerate, and hope he gets tired of me fast. Until then, he’s determined to make me miserable. But I’ll put up with it, because it’s going to get me somewhere. It’s getting Dad three— three!—nurses and helping me keep the business afloat. It’s getting rid of all those horrific debts that are keeping me up at night. It’s giving me closure on the boy I’ve missed so, so much for the last seven years. I sure don’t miss his ass now. In fact, I wish he’d stayed gone. I would rather mourn the guy I lost than see the jerk he’s turned into. Don’t sweat this, I tell myself. It’ll be just like kissing a stranger. He didn’t have that beard when

you were in high school, and the Clay from back then is nothing like the Clay now. This isn’t that guy. Your memories are safe. Saying that to myself makes me feel strangely better. I can’t lose the sweet, handsome boy I fell in love with back in high school. Not to the jerk that’s seated before me. I’ll always have those memories. They’re safe. So I study him. “A kiss, huh?” He nods, beard brushing against his collar as he does. “That’s what I said.” For some reason, I almost imagine that he’s as nervous as I am. That has to be my imagination, though. All right, since he’s not looking as if he’s going to help me—and he’s bought me, so I guess he doesn’t have to—I lean forward, closing the distance between us. When he still doesn’t lean in to meet me, I bite back a scowl. He’s going to make me climb all over him just to get this kiss in, is he? “You really are a prick,” I mutter as I scoot closer. Clay just chuckles, as if my complaints amuse him. Maybe they do. It only makes me more determined to get this over with. So I grab a handful of his shaggy beard and pull his face down toward mine. He looks surprised at my action, but his eyes get hooded as I move closer, and then my lips are on his.

I’m . . . not expecting his breath to be as sweet as it is. Or for his lips to feel as soft as they do. His beard tickles my face, and it’s like kissing a stranger. I brush my mouth over his in a light caress, exploring. But then his hand slips to the back of my neck and he pulls me closer to him, and his lips part and then his tongue rubs up against mine. And it’s not kissing a stranger. It’s kissing Clay. The Clay I loved so much back in high school. The Clay I spent hours upon hours just breathlessly making out with. The Clay I missed so desperately. When his tongue strokes against mine and he takes control of the kiss? It’s like being seventeen all over again. A soft little mew escapes my throat, and he groans against my mouth. Deeper, his tongue strokes against mine, licking me as if I’m his favorite flavor of ice cream, and I swear I can feel that all the way down to my toes. Over and over, our tongues meet and clash, stroke and taste, and our lips meld until the world disappears around me. There’s only Clay in my senses, Clay holding me close to him, the scent of him in my nose and his hard chest pressing against mine. His hand is tangled in my hair and mine is against his chest, and I’m inches away from crawling into his lap. Just when I think I should pull away, his tongue brushes against mine once more and then I’m lost yet again.

It seems like eternity before I pull away from him to catch my breath, and even as I do, he leans in and nips at my lower lip. I feel dazed at that one simple kiss, and I’m pretty sure I’m wet between my thighs from it. I’m shocked. And for a moment, Clay looks just as shocked as I am. With our noses inches apart, we’re both breathing heavy, and his gaze is locked to my kissswollen lips. “That’s a good start,” he murmurs. Just like that, the spell is broken. I push against his chest, sliding away from him, and wipe my mouth to show him just how little I care about his kiss. It’s a lie, of course—I’m shaken to my core. But I don’t want him to know that. “Satisfied?” “Nope,” he drawls, and I feel a tingle low in my belly. “But it’ll do for now.”

Clay I can’t stop thinking about that kiss. Damn. Doesn’t matter that it’s been a half hour since it happened. Doesn’t matter that since then, we’ve put Nat’s small suitcase in the trunk of the limo and driven off. That we’ve gone down the highway and we’re heading away from her small town and

toward San Antonio proper. Doesn’t matter that it’s completely silent in the limo and Nat’s just staring ahead, hands folded in her lap. I can’t stop thinking about That. Damn. Kiss. Took me back to when I was eighteen again, and my dick got hard just thinkin’ about Nat. Didn’t matter the time of day, or if I was at church or at my part-time job at the chicken shack. Nat was instant hard-on fuel. I felt like the luckiest bastard alive havin’ her as my girl. Til the day she fucked me over, of course. But that’s in the past. Sorta. I’m gonna get her in my bed, and then move on. My one big regret in life will be over and done with, and then I can clear my mind. Course, first I have to clear it from that kiss. I wanna kiss her again. Hell, I wanna throw her down on the limo seat and stick my hand into her panties, but the driver’s payin’ a bit too much attention. That’ll have to wait until we’re alone. Instead, I’ll just daydream for a little longer about how soft her mouth was, and how flushed pink her face was from my beard. Never thought that would be a turn-on, and yet— “Hm,” Nat says to my side. “What?” I rouse from my daydreams, sitting a little straighter. She glances over at me, her dark brows furrowed in a hint of a frown. “It looks like we’re

stopping in this parking lot.” I look out the window. Sure enough, we’ve pulled into an outdoor strip mall, the limo carefully navigating between rows of parking spaces. I’m not surprised. “I asked the driver to come here.” I’ve had this entire day all carefully mapped out, even though I won’t let her know that. “You did? Where are we going?” “I have a business dinner tonight with a potential investor. You’re going to be my date.” Her pink lips part and she looks shocked. “A date?” I pretend to adjust the cuffs of my jacket. “I did say you were gonna be assistin’ me twenty-fourseven until I’m done with you, didn’t I?” Natalie gives me an exasperated look. “Do you even know what an assistant does, Clay?” “Whatever I want her to,” I drawl lazily. She just gives a little shake of her head. “Okay, fine, we’ll have a business dinner. Is the dress casual or fancy?” Her hand smooths down the jeans she’s wearing. “Fancy,” I tell her. Mostly because I get to see her in a dress thataway. She bites her lip. “That’s going to be a problem. I don’t know that I have anything appropriate—” “Which is why we’re here,” I say, gesturing at the stores in the distance. “You’re gonna go in and

get a dress on my dime and then we’ll head over for dinner.” Her mouth opens. Shuts. Then opens again. “Clay,” she protests softly. “I . . . This is a bad idea, okay? Can I please just stay in the limo while you have your business dinner?” “Nope.” And the more she asks, the more stubborn I’m gonna get. I’ve had this all set up and I’m not about to change it because she’s uncomfortable with bein’ seen with me. Too damn bad. Nat makes a frustrated noise and her hands clench into fists on her lap. “Why are you such a stubborn ass?” I give her my best I-dont-care look. “Is it me bein’ an ass because I’m not givin’ in to what you want? If I recall, I’m the one with the money.” Her jaw clenches and she stares out the window, at the store we’ve parked in front of. I don’t know the place but according to my Internet search for “fancy dress” this is the right kind of place. She ain’t wormin’ out of this one. I want her lookin’ all sexy—not that she isn’t already—with some fuckme pumps on her feet and I wanna show her off on my arm. “Clay,” she begins again, her voice soft. “I appreciate that you want me to go to dinner with you, but I’d rather not.” “Didn’t ask you what you wanted,” I say sourly. She afraid to be seen with me? Too bad for her,

’cause I didn’t ask. “Go shoppin’ already. I’ll pay the bill. Or you want me to go in and give approval first?” I have to admit, I kinda like the idea. But she only swallows hard and stares at her hands in her lap. “Clay . . . I can’t shop there. They don’t carry clothes my size.” Huh? It doesn’t register at first, and I study her, lookin’ up and down. “What do you mean?” “I mean I’m too fat.” Her cheeks are bright pink and she turns away, clearly embarrassed. “They don’t carry clothes in larger sizes.” “You ain’t fat,” I tell her, surprised. Sure, she’s a little curvier now than before, but she’s luscious. Natalie looks up at me, surprised. Her eyes brighten and she gives me a faint smile, a genuine one. “You don’t have to say that,” she says softly, still smiling. “You bought me, remember?” “I didn’t forget.” My voice is gruff. “And I ain’t lyin’. You aren’t fat. You’re gorgeous.” Fuck, she’s especially gorgeous now that she’s smilin’ at me. I want to forget all about dinner and just throw her back on the seat here and get her out of those jeans and— The driver’s still watchin’ us in the mirror. Dickbag. I twirl a finger at him, indicating he should keep his eyes forward. I don’t like bein’ watched with my girl. She’s mine and mine alone. I turn back to her before I start growling.

“You’re sweet,” she tells me. “But it doesn’t change the fact that I still can’t shop there. So like I said, I don’t mind staying in the car while you have dinner—” I thrust my phone in her direction. “Show me where.” “What?” “You show me where you can find yourself a fancy dress that’ll fit.” Her mouth parts and then she takes my phone, her fingers brushin’ mine. Just like that, my dick gets hard as stone. Damn. I’m lookin’ forward to tonight, when I finally get to claim her as mine. But she focuses on my phone and types, concentrating, and then eventually offers it back to me. “This place, but it’s an hour away.” I take the phone from her and move to the front of the limo cab, showing it to the driver. “We’re goin’ here instead.” “Yes, sir.” “Now, window up.” I tap on it and then return to my seat. “Yes, sir,” the driver says again as the tinted window partition goes up and we’re alone. Well, a bit more alone. “Are you sure?” Natalie asks me, a worried look on her face. “It’s out of the way—” “Don’t care.” I begin texting. “I’ll tell my buddy we’ll meet up an hour later than anticipated.”

“Is that going to interfere with reservations? I don’t want to be a bother.” “You ain’t a bother, you’re my date. All right?” As for reservations . . . well. What she don’t know won’t hurt her. Nat nods, and clasps her hands in her lap again. Her feet are tucked and crossed neatly. She sits like a lady, always. It’s fascinatin’ to me, just watching her. I could stare for hours and never get bored. Just bein’ near her again feels like it’s feedin’ me in some weird way. I already feel more whole, more complete, more relaxed. Didn’t know what I needed until I got my lady back in my life again. There’s a buzz, and she immediately picks up her phone. Her gaze turns worried as she reads the screen, and then she taps a message into it. “Everything all right?” I ask, bein’ nosy. She looks up, startled, and hugs the phone to her chest. “What? Oh. Yes. It’s just, um, a question from my father’s caregivers.” She carefully keeps the phone angled away from me and checks the screen again. “He okay?” Nat nods absently, and it’s clear her attention isn’t with me any longer. “It’s the first time I’ve been away since . . . he fell ill. It’s an adjustment.” “He’s lucky you came back to stay with him after Stanford, eh?”

Her expression grows closed off. “Something like that.”

Natalie It’s quiet for the rest of the drive. I half feel like I should be chatting with Clay, but I’m distracted by so many things. I wonder how much he knows about what happened after we split up. Does he realize I never went to Stanford? That I stayed in Luka all this time? Does he realize how bad off my dad is? I’ve hinted that he needs assistance, but I don’t know if he realizes just how far gone Dad’s mind is . . . and how guilty I feel at leaving his side. Even now, Alice’s cheery text messages about how my dad is doing make me feel like the worst daughter ever. Shouldn’t I be at his side? Instead, I’m in a limo driving an hour out to a dress store that will carry my size for what sounds like a fancy dinner party. And I’m with Clay. Dad would hate that. I like to tell myself that Dad would understand what I’m doing. That he’d want me to get us out of debt. That he wouldn’t like it, but he’d at least understand it. Except I know he wouldn’t. I know his pride would make him absolutely loathe the thought of me selling myself to someone. The fact

that the ‘someone’ is Clay Price just makes it ten times worse. But Dad’s not here and I’m doing the best I can. Maybe it’s a good thing that his memory has so many holes in it. Then I feel awful for thinking such a thing. I’d rather have my bombastic, theatrical father back than the confused man that’s now in his skin. Just thinking about it gets me all depressed, though, and I text little tidbits of information to Alice to keep myself preoccupied. That Dad likes a particular mug, and he likes his bathwater tepid, and when he gets anxious, you can put on one of his old movies and he’ll focus in on that and start reading lines like he’s in the studio, and the blanket he prefers when he gets cold is in the closet, and a million other things to keep myself preoccupied so I can ignore Clay. If he wanted my attention, though, I’m sure Clay would say something. He’s not the type to let me slide. After all, he made me kiss him five minutes after getting into the car. I can only imagine what the rest of our time together is going to be like. And then I squeeze my thighs tightly together, because my imagination is going to some pretty torrid places. I’m almost relieved when the limo pulls into the parking lot of the mall, because that means that it’s

a change of scenery. I’ll be able to get away from Clay for a brief time while I find a dress, and that’ll let me get back into the right headspace for this. When the limo parks, I grab my purse and look over at Clay. “I promise I won’t take long and I’ll bring back a receipt. Any particular color I should keep in mind? How formal is the event?” His brows furrow together as he gazes at me. “Just . . . fancy. I dunno.” Well, that’s no help. “All right, then. I’ll go conservative.” The driver is at my door, so I get out, squinting into the sunshine. It only takes me about two seconds to realize that Clay’s right behind me, though. “What are you doing?” Clay puts a hand to the small of my back, moving into step next to me. “What do you mean?” “I’m going in to get a dress,” I say pointedly. “At a women’s store.” “I know. I can go with you.” He glances around, as if making sure no car is going to run me over, and then continues to lead me forward in a rather protective sort of manner. “Uh, Clay, it’s a fat-lady store. Most men wouldn’t be seen dead in one of those.” He scowls at me. “You gonna keep talking shit about yourself? Because I’m gonna have to change the contract if you do. That ain’t allowed.” I stick my tongue out at him. “I’m just saying the truth. My butt can’t fit into a normal size

anymore.” “Your butt is pretty tasty if you ask me, normal or not.” The hand on my back slides down to caress the curve of my ass. I yelp in surprise, stumbling forward on the sidewalk. Clay only chuckles. Face burning, I clutch my purse against my side and head into the mall. Clay moves back to my side again and I march through the shopping center, looking for the store I know will carry the size I need. I’ve always felt a little weird shopping in here in the past, but with a guy at my side? I feel really, really out of place. I pretend to ignore Clay as I head to the back of the store, looking for cocktail dresses. Everything’s spangled and looks like something my grandmother would wear, but I suppose they would fall under “demure.” I find one in my size and turn toward the attendant. “Can I have a fitting room?” “For that?” Clay drawls loudly, rubbing at his beard. I can feel my cheeks burn with humiliation. “What’s wrong with this dress?” He doesn’t answer me and instead turns to the sales clerk. “You got something with a bit more cleavage? And color?” She looks at me, then at Clay. Her nose wrinkles slightly at him, as if she’s disgusted that this big,

bearded guy is in her store, asking for cleavage. And for some reason, that irritates me. What, she thinks she’s too good for Clay because he’s got messy hair and a beard (despite an expensive suit)? She’s selling old-lady dresses. “No, those are our only plus-size formal dresses. You might go to the Nordstrom at the end of the mall.” “This one’s fine, thank you.” Clay gives me a surprised look. “We can go to Nordstrom. That’s fancier than here, right?” “And probably more expensive,” I warn him. I haven’t shopped anywhere like that since my father started having money trouble. I’ve learned to be frugal. If we had time, I’d have preferred a secondhand store, or a thrift shop, if I could find one that carried clothes in my size, of course. He just rolls his eyes and takes the plain dress out of my hands and puts it back on the rack. “Let’s get you something that doesn’t look like my granny got buried in it.” And even though I should be offended, it takes everything I have to stifle my horrified giggle. “It’s hard to find plus-size stuff that’s sexy unless you shop online,” I admit to him as we leave the store. “That’s fuckin’ stupid. You’re just as pretty now as you were when you were smaller.” I glance up at him as we weave through the people in the mall. He’s got his hand on my back again, his stance protective and attentive at the

same time, and he’s not looking over at me as he says it. It doesn’t sound like a line to him. It sounds like, well, he actually believes it. “I don’t know if you noticed,” I venture, “but I’m not the same size I was in high school.” “I noticed.” I can feel the shame creeping over me. “Like your tits a lot more now, though.” That . . . wasn’t the answer I was expecting to hear. But my pitiful, wounded self-esteem decides it has a little fight in it, after all. “Just my tits, huh?” He glances over at me, and his white teeth flash in a grin. “Already told you that your ass was amazin’. Or do I need to shout it to a few people?” He cups a hand to his mouth. Just as quickly, I grab his hand and haul it away. “Clay!” He chuckles at me, shaking his head. “So prim and proper. That hasn’t changed.” I guess not. Clay moves closer to me as we enter the far pricier department store. He looks just as out of place here as he did at the smaller boutique, but you wouldn’t know it by the way he carries himself. He doesn’t seem to care that he’s getting a few stares from sales staff, or that shoppers are discreetly moving away from him. I study him as he steps ahead of me when the aisle grows narrow. There’s no denying that Clay hasn’t exactly put

much care into his appearance. While his suit is impressive, his hair has always been a bit too long and right now it curls and waves around his ears and neck. His beard is long and thick and hides most of his face. He looks . . . mismatched. But there’s no denying that he’s handsome. Underneath all that, he’s tanned, built, and moves with a lithe grace that I’m envious of. If we weren’t in this ridiculous deal, I’d still be crazy over him. It’s just that this deal changes everything, sadly. Clay flags down a passing saleswoman and gestures at me. “We need a dress for my girl. Somethin’ sexy.” “What’s your price range?” She asks immediately, all ears. “Don’t got one,” he tells her, and pulls out his wallet, offering a black credit card. “I want her to have somethin’ with cleavage.” She looks at me, then at the card, and a beaming smile crosses her face. “Won’t you both follow me?” I’m of half a mind to tell Clay that we shouldn’t shop here, either. That these people are giving him funny looks and I don’t like it. But Clay looks back and winks at me. “Gotta love it when they work on commission.” I lean in toward him. “I don’t like the way she was treating you—”

His eyes sparkle with amusement. “Which is what makes her change of heart twice as amusin’, now.” I’m a little surprised by this. He knows he doesn’t fit in . . . and he just doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter to him what others think. I get a flashback of the boy I dated in high school, who didn’t care that everyone thought I was a snob. He was so secure in his own skin that he didn’t need the validation of others. Clay Price never did anything he didn’t want to. My heart gives a funny little squeeze at that. When we get to the dresses, there’s more than just one tiny rack situated in the back of the store. There are tons of racks of fancy, sparkly dresses, all of them beautiful and elegant—and twice as expensive as the last store. I know Clay has money, but I still feel a little anxious when I flip over the price tag on a pretty maroon sheath. Is all of this being carefully added to my tab? As if he can read my thoughts, Clay leans in, voice a bare whisper. “Anything over five hundred and the anal’s back on the table.” I give a startled choke of laughter and slap at his shoulder. “You’re terrible.” He just grins at me. “Now,” the saleswoman says. “You wanted cleavage, right?” She gestures at a rack of black

and red dresses. “I think something like this will look fantastic, and it comes in a variety of sizes.” * * * A short time later, I step out of the fitting room in a tight black bodycon dress with spaghetti straps in place of sleeves, and a built in girdle. I have to admit that I look pretty damn good, even if I’m showing more skin than I normally do. I spin around in the mirror, checking everything, before I head out to the cash register. I can tell by the way Clay’s eyes gleam at the sight of me that it looks exactly like he wanted. I’m feeling pretty sexy, though, and I give my hair a little toss. “This meet your approval?” “Fuck yeah.” He looks me up and down again with a hungry gaze that makes me shiver. “If it was any better, I’d cancel dinner and tell Fred he’s on his own.” “Don’t do that,” I blurt out. I forgot that “sexy” means things move ahead that much faster. He just gives me a wink. “Oh, but you need shoes,” she coos at us. “There are the cutest Louboutins that would look perfect with that.” I’ll bet there are. They probably cost twice as much as my dress, though. Before I can protest, Clay nods. “We want ’em. Add it to the card.”

And ten minutes later, I slip a spike-heeled pair of black, peep-toe Louboutins on my feet. When I stand up, I feel beautiful and powerful, like I’m the one in control. I can tell from Clay’s expression that he approves, and it just increases the heady sensation. He offers me his arm and I take it, and we leave the store—and the mall—like the world’s most conspicuous couple ever. When we get into the limo, I adjust my skirt, cross my feet at the ankles, and then glance over at him. “So when do you change?” “Hm?” He glances over at my face, then back down at my legs again. All right, even though I’m hating this contract, I’m not hating the fact that he’s so distracted at the sight of my legs. I feel prettier now than I have in years. Maybe ever. I slowly recross them just to watch his expression grow more intense. “Are we heading straight to dinner?” “Yup. We’ll be there soon.” He sounds distracted. I wonder if it’s impolite to ask if my date should brush his hair. Probably. My phone buzzes with an incoming text from Alice, and I pick it up, forgetting all about Clay. It’s a brief update on how dad is doing—she’s so thoughtful. She knows I’m nervous and is giving me updates every couple of hours just to keep me in the loop. Right now he’s napping and she’s letting me know what she has

planned for his dinner. Even though I can’t be there, I’m beyond thrilled with how conscientious and attentive she is so far. I’m starting to relax about leaving my father alone with them. A little. But when the limo stops for a second time, we’re in front of a steakhouse. A . . . chain steakhouse. I look over at Clay in surprise as the driver gets out. “Are we making another temporary stop?” “Nah. This is where we’re having dinner.” He gives me another lazy, heart-stopping grin and I can’t decide if I want to kiss him or punch him in the face. “I’m wearing a cocktail dress for The Sizzlin’ Skillet? Are you serious?” I stare at him, aghast. “I thought you said this was a business dinner.” “It is. My buddy Fred’s meetin’ us there and we’re gonna talk business.” “I didn’t need a three-hundred-dollar dress and eight-hundred-dollar shoes for The Sizzlin’ Skillet!” “You did if I wanted you to have ’em.” The look in his eyes grows heated. “I wanted to look at you dressed up. And I felt like showin’ you off. So that’s what I’m gonna do.” I just gaze at him blankly. I can’t believe this. “It’s a huge waste of money.” Clay laughs. “Like I give a shit about that? I have money to burn for days.” “It’s wasteful.”

“Not to me. Not when I get what I want.”

Chapter Nine

Natalie Dinner is . . . well, the nicest word I can think for it is “weird.” It’s not that it’s bad. The food is great, and when I order a salad, Clay makes a face and orders me a steak, just like everyone else at the table is having. The business partner, Fred, turns out to be an older gentleman in a cowboy hat and bolo tie, and with a wife as round as I am. She’s the happiest, giggliest person, and I spend most of dinner smiling because they’re just such a sweet couple to be around. I’m the only one dressed up, and even though a couple of people give me funny looks, after a while, I don’t notice it anymore. I’m quiet through dinner, listening as the two men discuss things like camouflage, hunting seasons, and then “responsive fibers.” From what it sounds like, Clay’s product is a camouflage that will respond to the environment, which seems pretty smart to me. I’m even more impressed when he begins discussing how to make it affordable for

troops overseas. Fred wants to sell it to the military, but Clay isn’t having any of that. He wants it made cheap enough so that families can buy it for their sons serving overseas. He’s heard stories about soldiers having to have body armor sent to them and wants to do one better with the cheap camo. I’m impressed at his altruism, though I don’t point out that it’d be easier for him to just send body armor to the soldiers overseas if he wants to spend his money. There’s clearly enthusiasm for the project, and since I don’t know much about it—or the business—I just sip my glass of iced tea and listen politely. It’s also clear to me that Fred and his wife think that I’m Clay’s girlfriend instead of his paid assistant. I can see why they’d think that, given I’m dressed up in heels and a slinky dress . . . and because Clay keeps his hand on my knee or around my shoulders at all times. Actually, he pretty much insists on touching me in some way all through the evening. Not in a creepy, grabby sort of way. Just as if he needs to reassure himself that I’m there. Like I’m a touchstone of some kind. It’s interesting. I should hate it, but instead . . . it makes me feel like I did back when I was seventeen, and my world revolved around Clay Price and how good he made me feel. It’s completely different now, I remind myself. And yet . . .

It doesn’t feel all that different. I’m bigger around and Clay’s grown a big bushy beard and gotten a tan, but . . . those things don’t matter, I guess. Not when it’s the same person underneath. Tonight, as he puts his hand on my knee and rubs it for what feels like the tenth time in a row, it does feel like the same person. It’s not the awful, brutal Clay of the past few days that’s made terrible deals and expected me to jump running. When he throws his head back and laughs, it makes me smile, and reminds me of the boy from high school, the one with the infectious smile that everyone returned. The boy who’d never met a stranger or made an enemy. I’d loved him so much. Right up until he’d wanted me to stay home and be his little wife. Or at least, I’d thought that was what he wanted. If it was anything like tonight, it’d be something that sounds terrible in theory, but the reality would be cozy dinners together, laughing among friends with Clay’s hand on my knee . . . and kisses like the one we’d shared in the limo. Somehow, I don’t think marrying Clay and being his “little wife” would have been so bad, after all. The thought makes me sad. Why was I so angry when my dad brought it up? Why had he made it sound so terrible? I should have talked to Clay more instead of lashing out at him. But I can’t go back and change the past, just like I can’t go back and prevent my dad from having his stroke and

turning my life upside down. I can’t go back and tell my dad not to spend his fortune. I can’t go back and tell Clay Price that I would have loved to have been his wife. That ship has sailed and it left without me. All I get now is to be his paid mistress.

Clay Having Nat at my side’s like a dream. Being able to touch her whenever I want? Hearing her quiet laughter, seeing her pretty smile slowly cross her face. God. I wish I’d thought of this years ago. I don’t care that I had to buy Natalie to get her back. I love having her here. I feel complete. She’s mine now for as long as I want her. I glance down at my hand, but the R there—or was it an S?—has been completely rubbed away from washing my hands and then just the vagaries of the day. Maybe that’s a sign that I don’t need revenge. Nah. As the night wears on, though, Natalie grows quieter. She’s always been a bit shy in social situations. One on one, she’s as charming as anything, but put her in a room full of people, and she clams up. I’ve always known that about her and thought it was kinda cute—how the prettiest, most

attractive girl I ever met gets tongue-tied around strangers. Doesn’t seem right to me. Tonight it’s just four of us—me and her, and Fred and his wife, Irma. Nat’s gracious and pleasant to them, but she listens a lot more than she talks, and as the night goes on, her smiles grow less and less frequent. She’s got a sad look in her eyes that makes me wonder what she’s worryin’ about. Probably her dad, I realize. The thought makes me burn with jealousy. I hate that she’s with me and even now, she’s focused on that old man. That even if I pay Natalie to be with me—really be with me—her thoughts still aren’t here. Even now, Chap Weston’s pushin’ in between us, like the destroyer that he is. It sours my mood, too. I keep up the act for Fred and Irma, though. They don’t need to know that I’m seething inside. Business talks wind up going nowhere, but that’s okay. I know Fred’ll work with me. Always knew that. Tonight was just to establish a bond between us and to show Natalie off a little. I’m proud of how sexy she is, even if I did have to buy her. That don’t matter to me. When we get out to the limo, I nod to the driver. I’m stayin’ at a hotel in downtown San Antonio— one of the most expensive ones. Thought about bringing Nat back to my trailer, but that seemed wrong and insultin’ somehow. So I rented the fanciest suite I could get at Ivy’s suggestion. As we

head to the hotel, though, she checks her phone again. And again. And the sad, distant look on her face just keeps growin’. Any conversation I try to make with her falls limp, and by the time we get to the hotel, I ain’t even tryin’ anymore. I’m burnin’ up with bitter anger. Didn’t I buy her? Didn’t I pay for her to be my assistant for as long as I want her? But even now, she ain’t with me. Maybe it ain’t her dad . . . maybe it’s someone else. A boyfriend I’m unaware of. The thought fills me with rage. I didn’t even ask. What if she does have a man? My hands clench into fists at the thought, and for the first time in my life . . . I feel murderous. It’s weird. I hate bein’ jealous. I’m not that guy. Least, I didn’t think I was until I saw Nat again. Now I want to deck anyone that looks at her a little too hard. I feel possessive. She’s mine. Mine alone. I’m moody by the time we get to the hotel. Nat makes a little noise in her throat at the sight of the hotel itself, but she doesn’t question it. Reckon she doesn’t wanna go back to my trailer, either. Then again, she might not know that I don’t have a real house. I ponder that. Maybe it’s time to see about gettin’ a real home now that I want to bring a lady back to my place. I’ll talk to Ivy, I think.

Tomorrow. Tonight I don’t wanna think about any girl but Natalie. We head up in the elevator and I pull out my keycard. Natalie’s still quiet, though she’s starting to twitch at my side. I wonder if she’s nervous or if she just can’t wait to get away from me. The thought burns in my gut. Like I want her just rarin’ to escape. I want her hungry for more kisses. Maybe that’s why I’m all surly when we pause in front of the suite. She eyes the double doors and gives me a curious, innocent look. “Is my room nearby?” I push the keycard into the slot and then press my thumb to the reader to let it know that it’s me. “Only one room,” I tell her, and then hold the door open so she can enter. She looks all surprised, her mouth open in a hint of shock, and I want to kiss it right off her face. What, did she not think I was going to just change my mind? Say, “You called my bluff. I don’t want ya in my bed”? Truth of the matter is, I want her now more than ever before. So I wait patiently, holding the door open for her. Waiting for her to hold up her end of the bargain. Natalie swallows hard and then sweeps past me, her chin held high. She clutches her purse under her arm like a football, and her back is stiff. I can see color in her cheeks, and it’s clear she’s ruffled.

That’s all right. She’ll get comfortable when I get my hand between her thighs. I follow her inside and toss the keycard down, along with my wallet, on the nearest table. “Make yourself at home.” She looks around the room—a pretty fancy place, if I do admit—and then sits elegantly on a chair near a small round table. She puts her purse down. I immediately go to pick it up. “What are you doing?” she asks, reaching for it. “I want your attention on me, not on your phone,” I tell her brusquely. “Oh.” She relaxes and sits back in the chair, biting her lip. “I’m sorry about that in the limo. I was lost in thought, and distracted by the nurses attending my father.” Least she admits it. I feel a little more relaxed at that. “You want a drink from the minibar?” Her smile is faint. “No, thank you.” I noticed she wasn’t drinking anything but tea at dinner. I had a beer, but just one. “So you don’t wanna be drunk for this?” I tease. She glances down at her hands in her lap. “I’d rather not, I think.” “I’d rather you were sober, too. I’d feel kinda shitty if you were drunk.” “So it’s not okay for me to be drunk, but it’s okay for you to force me into this by paying me?”

She looks up at me, her eyes narrowed with curiosity. Got me there. I scratch at my head, feelin’ a little foolish. “Kinda? In my head it makes sense, at least.” “None of this makes sense to me,” she admits. “I’m not sure why you want me, of all people. And why now.” I could explain myself. But I’m not sure I feel like it. She just needs to know that I want her and that I’ll take care of her needs to ensure that she takes care of mine. “It ain’t important,” I say, and then sit down on the edge of the bed and pat the seat next to me. Her eyes go wide and she gives me a nervous look. Kinda makes me smile to myself. She’s actin’ like a shocked virgin despite the fact that she’s twenty-five. I don’t expect she waited on me, so the ploy ain’t necessary. “You on birth control?” “Of course not,” Nat tells me, frowning. “There’s never been a need.” I go still. “This . . . ain’t your first time, is it?” Her back goes stiff as she sits next to me, all prim and proper. “How many times do you think I should have done this, then?” She looks mighty uncomfortable. I snort, because I mostly want her to get that pinched, worried look off her face. “More’n me.”

Natalie’s brows go down and she gives me a curious look. “How many times have you done it?” Done it. Heh. Like we’re still two teenagers discussin’ the forbidden. “Haven’t,” I admit. “Waited for you.” I gaze at her pretty face, so lovely she makes my heart ache. “Then I waited to get over you.” Her full lips part and her eyes grow shiny. “Oh, Clay,” she sighs. “Sometimes you say the sweetest things . . . and then sometimes I want to punch you right in the face.” That just makes me grin. It sparks a memory of long ago, when I frustrated her back on a date and she threatened something very similar. “You still didn’t answer my question,” I point out. “You a virgin?” Her cheeks are red but she nods, slowly. Fierce pleasure ricochets through me. Holy fuck. She waited for me? Or . . . she waited because of something. Don’t care. All I know is that I’m going to be Natalie’s first anyhow. Doesn’t matter that it took us seven years to get here. She’s mine. All mine. With a fierce growl, I pull her against me and capture her mouth. I feel her stiffen in surprise, but then she melts against me, her hands going to my waist and resting there as I kiss her. She’s mine, and she’s gonna stay mine, I decide. I love the taste of her, and the way she feels against me.

Even so, I can tell she’s holding back—it’s not like the kiss we had in the car. She’s hesitant, and when her tongue flicks against mine, I can almost taste the worry rushing through her. I press a gentle kiss on her parted lips and then nip at her mouth. “You okay?” Her nose brushes against mine as she ducks her head. “I’m nervous.” I feel a ridiculously stupid surge of pride at that. She’s nervous ’cause it’s her first time. I’m going to get her first time. “Would it make you feel better if I said I was nervous, too?” I ain’t, but I’ll say whatever to make her feel better. She chuckles and her hand smacks lightly against my side. “I’d rather you be confident so we do things well.” “Oh, I’m confident,” I tell her in a husky voice. I let my thumb graze over her full lower lip, still wet from my kiss. “I’m confident that I’m gonna kiss the hell out of you, and then I’m going to strip this sexy dress off your even-more-sexy body. I’m gonna dip my fingers between your thighs and play with your pussy, and then—” Her fingers push against my lips. “Clay,” she says softly, embarrassed. “You’re trying to make me blush, aren’t you?” Actually, I’m tryin’ to turn her on. It’s clear that when she’s nervous, though, she can’t think beyond that nervousness. I remember that back when we

were younger, too. Natalie took some coaxin’ to relax. When she got wound up, she was wound up tighter’n anyone I’d ever met before. Her family was always stressin’ her out when she was a teenager. Her dad had unreasonable expectations and her stepmom was a beast. I thought it might have gotten better since she’d moved back in with her daddy and her stepmom was gone, but some things don’t change, I guess. That’s all right. I remember how to deal with Uptight Natalie. I remember she liked kissin’. A lot. And that it felt really good to kiss the hell out of her for what felt like hours on end. I’m more’n happy to do that again right now. I cup her jaw and tilt her mouth toward mine again. This time, I brush my lips gently over hers. Once. Twice. Then again and again. Light, feathery little kisses to distract her and make her keep guessin’ what I’m gonna do with my mouth next. Somewhere in the steady stream of light, unobtrusive kisses, she relaxes. Her body leans into mine a bit more and her lips move against mine with every caress. She makes a soft little sound in her throat when my tongue grazes over the seam of her lips, and I know she’s mine. She ain’t thinkin’ about anything but my mouth now. Good. I’m claimin’ her tonight. I’ve waited seven years to make her mine, and I don’t want to wait another moment longer.

Our kisses grow hungrier, deeper. My tongue brushes against hers, and when she responds eagerly, I intensify the kiss. Over and over, I stroke my tongue, fucking her mouth like I want to fuck her cunt. Her hands curl against my shirt and she makes a little whimper with every drag of my tongue against hers. I don’t let up, though. I just keep kissin’ her with all the intensity I’m feeling at this moment. There’s nothing I want more than those little sounds coming from her throat. I live for that. I live for the sweep of her tongue against mine. When I finally break away from kissing her, she looks dazed. The lower half of her face is bright red from where my beard has rubbed against her face, and I feel a twinge of guilt at the sight. Kissing me is tearin’ up her skin. She doesn’t look upset, though. She looks soft and fuckable and like she wants more. Makes me growl low in my throat, and I can’t resist pressing another kiss to her parted lips. I’m the first one to touch this virgin territory. She’s mine. It just fuels my possessiveness. Natalie was born to be mine, I realize. I’m never lettin’ her go. Not now, not ever. “I’m gonna take this dress off you now, Nat,” I whisper between kisses, and slip a finger under one spaghetti strap. “Or would you rather I get naked first?”

Her hands move to my shoulders. She curls her fingers against my shirt again, and then gives me a breathless shake of her head. “I don’t know.” “How about I take my shirt off first, then?” I press a tiny kiss on the tip of her nose, then the corner of her mouth. I keep kissin’ while she nods, distracted. Goddamn, she’s pretty. I can’t wait to get every inch of her naked. My cock aches fiercely at the thought. “Okay,” she whispers, her mouth impossibly close to mine. It tears me up to have to pull my hands off of her. I want them all over her—caressin’ those rounded, delicious breasts of hers, the ample ass that I’ve been eyein’ all day, her soft, pale legs with the most delicate ankles. All of her is appealin’. Ain’t none of it I’d kick out of bed for eatin’ crackers. I just hope she finds me half as appealing. I run a hand down my beard, noticing her flushed skin again. Nothin’ to be done about that now, though, and she hasn’t complained. I grab the front of my shirt and rip the buttons apart in a quick motion, not caring that the fabric makes a ripping sound. It’s just a shirt. I got plenty more of those. I toss it on the floor and wait for her to react. Just like she’s changed since high school, I have, too. I’m a lot hairier, I gotta admit. Back then, I had a lean chest without much of a tan. Now I’ve got hair all over my pectorals and I’m burnt a dark tan

by the sun. My belly ain’t fat at least, but I do wonder what she’s gonna think of me. Nat makes a breathless sound and she puts a hand on my shoulder, then squeezes. “You’re . . . Wow. You look different than I remember.” “Can’t help that,” I mutter. I ain’t waxin’ my chest. That’s just fuckin’ weird. “I like it,” she tells me, and her hand smooths down one pectoral and then she reaches over and squeezes my bicep. “You’re so . . . big. I don’t remember you being so big.” Well, damn. Makes me want to show off for her, flex my muscles a little like the vain idiot I am. She gives a nervous little laugh and meets my eyes. “Is it weird that I’m scared? I just . . . waited so long and now it’s going to be like this—” “It’s going to be amazing,” I reassure her, hatin’ that my heart squeezes a little at her words. “I would have wanted you to be my first anyhow. Always did.” It’s the right thing to say. The smile returns to her face and she gives a little nod. “Me too. I just wish . . .” The words trail off and I don’t want her goin’ down that path. I have a R on my knuckles, don’t I? I need to be ruthless. Or is it a scoundrel today? Fuck if I know. Fuck if I care. I just want to get that sad expression off her face. So I take her hand and put it on my breast again, and her fingers curl in my

chest hair. She seems fascinated by it, and while she’s distracted, I lean in and press another gentle kiss to her mouth. She makes a delicious, toecurling sound of pleasure when I pull away, and I take that moment to tug one of the tiny straps down her arm. Or at least I try to. I tug at the strap but it’s digging into her skin and doesn’t seem to want to move. “One of the perils of having a larger chest,” she admits, and eases the strap down her shoulder with a snap of the material. “You need more support than you think.” I trace a finger over the red mark the strap left on her skin. Well, damn. If I’d have known it was gonna mark her up—I’d have undressed her hours ago. “You need to quit talkin’ about yourself like you’re shit now that you gained weight. I don’t like it.” Her eyes go wide and the nervous look returns to her face. It doesn’t fade even when I lean in to press a kiss to one creamy white shoulder. “I just . . . You’re paying a lot of money, Clay. I don’t want you finding me . . . unpleasant. I shouldn’t care, but I do. I worry. I’m not the same size I was in high school. After my stepmom moved out, I realized she’d done a number on my self-esteem and it took me a while before I could eat like a normal person again. I packed on some weight.

I . . . Well, normally I don’t care but you remember me as skinny—” “I remember you as pretty,” I tell her. “And soft. And mine. None of that’s changed.” I trace a finger down her arm. Still so damn soft. “If it’ll make you stop worryin’, I like your big tits. I like your big butt. I like your rounded thighs. I’m pretty sure I’m gonna like your rounded belly when I put my mouth on it. And I know I’m gonna like it when I put my mouth on—” Her fingers press to my lips again, and she gives a girlish giggle that warms my heart. “I get the point. No need to go into detail.” “Party pooper.” Her laughter is a beautiful thing, just as beautiful as this body she worries about. I kiss her shoulder again, and then ease—or fight with—the other strap, until they’re both dangling off her shoulders and her breasts look like they’re about to spill out of the tight top of her dress. And fuck, if that ain’t a pretty sight, I don’t know what is. I run a knuckle against the line of her cleavage. “Don’t see how you could see this as anythin’ but gorgeous, Nat.” “I just want you to be satisfied with your purchase—” “If I didn’t like the way you looked, I’d have never bought you in the first place,” I tell her, but I don’t even know if that’s true. Her ass could be twice as wide and she could have her hair in a buzz

cut and she could be wearin’ a muumuu and I’d still want her because she’s Natalie Weston. Seven years later, I’m still madly in love with her. The realization hits me like a ton of bricks. It ain’t infatuation or obsession. I ain’t angry at her anymore. I just ache with wantin’ her. Knowing that she’s still a virgin—that she’s never taken anyone else to her bed, just like me—it frees up somethin’ in my chest. I feel . . . lighter. Complete. I feel like the last seven years didn’t matter so much after all. Maybe Natalie Weston didn’t wanna marry me seven years ago, but I can convince her that she wants to marry me now. First, though, I’m gonna claim her thoroughly. I put my hands around her waist, lean in, and bury my face in those glorious breasts of hers. She squeals in surprise as I do, wriggling against me. “Love these gorgeous tits,” I tell her as I slowly peel one of the cups of her dress down. She sucks in a breath, going stiff as I pop one nipple free from its confines. Prettiest damn thing I’ve ever seen. I lean down and brush my mouth over the pink tip, and Nat’s moan of response nearly makes me lose control. “So fuckin’ beautiful,” I tell her. “Lean back on the bed for me so I can look at you properly.”

Nat does, and it lets me feast on the gorgeous sight of her, dark hair spillin’ around her shoulders. She’s practically comin’ out of the top of that dress now, one bouncy breast freed from its confines and the other strainin’ to make its escape. Her eyes are wide and dark with need, and she’s breathing hard, either nervous or excited—or both. I know just how she feels. I want to cover her with my body, to feel her naked skin, soft and smooth, against mine. More than anything, I just want to keep touchin’ her. “Remember back when we used ta make out in my truck?” I ask her, sliding my hand up the material of her dress and undoing the tiny little corset hooks that crawl up the front. “You would wear these dainty little sweaters and you never wanted me to put my hand under ’em, because you were shy. ’Cept we’d get to kissin’, and then you’d have your hands under my shirt and start beggin’ all kinds of things like, ‘Please, Clay, touch me.’ And I would, because that’s like askin’ a drownin’ man not to breathe air.” The hooks pop under my fingers, and as each one loosens, more of her pearly skin is exposed to the air. She’s completely quiet as I speak, but her gaze is riveted to mine. “And I remember reachin’ under those sweaters and brushin’ my hand over your tits and thinking that life didn’t get much better than that,” I murmur. The last hooks come undone, and then

she’s spillin’ out of that dress, the material fallin’ away from her gorgeous body until there’s nothing but her gorgeous breasts in the open air. “Guess I shoulda dreamed a little harder, because right now, I can’t see how that could possibly compare to this moment. And then when I touch you again, it’s gonna get even better.” I lean in closer, because I want nothing more than to bury my face between those beautiful breasts. It takes everything I have just to gently rub two knuckles between the valley of ’em. “So now, I’m seein’ how perfect you are in this moment, and you know what I’m thinkin?” “What?” She’s all breathless. “I’m thinkin’ it ain’t gonna hold a candle to when I get my face between your thighs.” The moan that breaks free from her is full of need. She closes her eyes and arches slightly on the bed, and it makes those magnificent breasts of hers bounce in a way that I can’t resist. I cup one, dragging my thumb over the budded tip, and love that she moans again. I want her to grab me and hold me against her, but I guess we ain’t there yet. Yet. I lower my head and drag my beard over her other breast, letting it prickle against her skin. I can’t wait to taste her, but I’m gaugin’ her reaction first. I know I can’t show up out of nowhere after seven years and expect her to get wet the moment I touch her, but that doesn’t mean I ain’t gonna try. I

use my tongue, next, sliding it over the tip of one pink nipple and teasing the other with my fingers. She makes a low, needy sound, and her fingers dig into the blankets on the bed. “Clay,” she pants. Now, that’s more like it. “These are some pretty nipples,” I murmur to her, and give one an appreciative lick. “Tasty, too. Think your pussy tastes half as good as these do?” Natalie whimpers, pulling at fistfuls of the sheets. “What’s that?” I tease. “Find out for myself? Don’t mind if I do.” I smooth a hand down the front of her dress, where it’s bunched at her thighs. I can’t find clasps like the ones that held the top together, though, and end up just rubbing her mound through the fabric even as I nuzzle at her nipple. My cock’s straining against my pants, and I feel desperately close to coming—even though I know we’re just gettin’ started. This is as far as I ever got with Natalie. Once, we dry-humped in the front seat of my truck until she had a tiny orgasm, but we didn’t go that far again. She was afraid to push it and I just wanted to make her happy. Looking back, I was far too patient as a teenager. Because as I tease her nipples and rub my hand over her cunt through the dress, she makes wild, gasping noises and writhes on the bed. It’s clear that she likes it when I touch her.

Fuck knows why we both waited so long to make this happen. “Want to take this dress off so I can touch you the way you deserve to be touched?” “Yes,” she tells me, and I reward her with a nip on her breast that makes her breath catch and her entire body shudder. “Then show me how to remove this damn thing,” I tell her, tugging at the material. Never thought it’d be so hard to undress a woman. Natalie reaches for something on her side, and I see a hidden zipper. Okay, weird that it would open in the front and on the side, but I’ve long ago accepted that women dress in bizarre creations. Of course, if her hands are busy, that gives me freedom to enjoy myself. I lean in and suck lightly at her breast as she fiddles with her skirt, and her surprised little moan sends a jolt all the way to my cock. Then the zipper goes down and she’s pushing the material down her thighs. Good. I lick at her nipple again, and help her push the dress off of her body, though I nearly lose control when she raises one curvy, beautifully shaped leg into the air. Still wearin’ those damn wicked-looking shoes. God have mercy. I’m distracted away from the shoes by the sight of her panties, though. They’re a delicate pink-andwhite-floral cotton, a tiny scrap of fabric against the lush softness of her thighs. Fuck yeah. That’s

more like it. Boldly, I push my hand between her slightly spread legs and cup her pussy. I’m shocked to feel that the fabric of her panties is already soaked. “You that turned on, baby?” This time, she doesn’t haughtily demand that I not call her baby. She only shudders and gives me that hot, needy look that turns me on so damn much. I bite back the possessive growl that threatens to rise in my throat. Love this. Love how turned on she is. How helpless before me. How lush and inviting. I nip at her breast again and she tilts her head back, crying out as I rub my fingers along the wet seam of her cunt through her panties. She presses up against my hand as I do so, and the need to cover her body and make her mine grows stronger by the second. My sac feels tight against my cock, and I know if I don’t pace myself, I’m going to blow it. Literally and figuratively. And she hasn’t come yet. She’s enjoying herself —it’s obvious from the dampness of her panties as well as the soft little cries she’s making—but she’s not there yet. It don’t matter that I bought her for my pleasure; I’m not getting off until Natalie does. I want her to want this—want me—as bad as I want her. I need to figure out what takes her from “enjoying herself” to “going wild.” It’s gonna take

a little experimenting, of course, but that’s half the fun. I shift in the bed, sliding my body alongside hers until I’m lying on my side next to her. Like this, I can lean over and kiss her, or pet her pretty breasts, or push my hand into her panties. She gives me a soft look, blinking up at me as I do, as if waiting to see what I’m going to do next. I feel like a king admiring his prize possession, or a man about to feast at a banquet. There’s so many places I want to taste, to touch, to tease . . . But mostly, I want her to come. I think about that time in my car when she made the softest little cry into my ear as she rubbed up against me, and I know I want to hear that again. Scratch that, I want to hear it magnified by a thousand times. I want her clawing up and down my back with her need. That’s what I want. Kisses are the way to get there, I think. Starting with kisses. I lean in and brush my mouth over hers, and she responds eagerly. This time, she reaches for me, her arms going around my neck, her lips eager against mine. I rest my hand on her pussy again, and I feel her tense, though her kisses grow hungrier. I slick my tongue against hers until she relaxes in my arms, and then I push the fabric of her panties aside and explore her with my fingers. She gasps against my mouth.

“Want me to stop?” I give her a light kiss. If she asks me to, I will. Don’t matter how much money I’ve spent—if she ain’t into it, that kills it for me. But Nat shakes her head and bites down on my lower lip, then sucks on it. Her thighs tighten around my hand, and I can feel her quiverin’ but she’s still kissing me like her life depends on it. And I’m lost. Touching her cunt is . . . indescribable. She’s impossibly soft, her folds slippery and wet with need. She’s scorchingly hot between her legs, too, as if all of the blood in her body is rushing here. I stroke her, exploring her with my fingertips. She didn’t shave, her mound capped by a trim thatch of hair, but I like that. I slide a finger up and down her folds, seeking out her clit, and I’m almost surprised when I find it. Her gasp is the only thing that tells me that I’ve struck the right spot, so I slow down in my exploring until I find it again—there, nestled in her folds, is the tiniest of bumps. When my finger brushes against it again, her body jerks in response. Jackpot. Nat whimpers into my kiss as I drag my finger over it again. I slick my tongue against hers, claiming her mouth with deep, tender strokes as I rub my finger over her clit. This time, she cries out and pushes my hand away. “Too sensitive,” she pants, pressing her forehead to mine. “Sorry. It’s just—”

“Doesn’t feel good?” I ask. When she hesitates, I chuckle. “You gotta tell me yes or no, baby. I ain’t never touched another girl before, and I wanna do it right.” “Never?” Nat whispers, surprise on her face. “Not even this?” I shake my head. “Not even this.” In some ways, I’m just as innocent as she is, though my palm could probably attest to otherwise. Truth is, sex sounds good, but without Natalie, it loses its appeal. Sex with Natalie? Now, that thought makes me crazy with need. She licks her lips, and the sight of that little pink tongue darting out makes me want to kiss her all over again. But she’s takin’ my hand in hers, and guiding me between her thighs. Fuck, that’s hot. She’s gonna show me exactly what she needs to get off, and I nearly bust in my pants at the realization. “Soft,” Nat tells me, and takes my finger and guides it in a little circle around that spot. “Not directly against it. That’s too much.” She rubs her nose against mine and her mouth comes closer, as if she’s beggin’ for a kiss. “And then you can add fingers if you want to.” Add fingers? I’m so dazed by the hungry, sexy look on her face it takes me a moment to realize she means that I should fuck her with my fingers. Of course. My brain’s just scrambled at how gorgeous she is and I’m not thinkin’ straight. I love

that she’s being so honest, though, and I’m gonna do my best to give her exactly what she needs. So I begin to touch her, just as she showed me. Tiny, soft circles around her clit, grazing and teasing the skin around it but never quite the nub itself. I kiss her again, my mouth light against hers. This time, she doesn’t moan. Natalie sucks in a breath, and then another. Her eyes close and she whimpers again. Her hands go to my shoulders, then drag down my sides and her nails dig in, as if she’s desperately trying to find purchase. Her hips raise and she starts to meet the movements of my hand with her body. Fuck, that is the sexiest goddamn thing I have ever seen. Her eyes are closed and she buries her face against my neck, as if it’s too much. Ain’t too much for me. I wanna watch. I stare, fascinated as she raises her hips, and my fingers—slick and gleaming with her juices—work against her pink folds. I want to taste them so badly, but I don’t want to change the rhythm I’ve got going, because Natalie’s making soft little cries against my neck that are making my sac tighten in dangerous, pleasurable kinds of ways. Her nails dig in to my skin painfully. “Clay. Don’t stop.” “I ain’t never gonna stop, baby,” I tell her, panting. It takes everything I have not to change

the rhythm I’ve got going with my hand. Part of me wants to add the fingers she mentioned, and part of me wants to just finger her as frantically as I feel my heart racing at the moment, but I need to give her what she wants. Need to— She rubs her face against my neck, moaning, and then bites down on my skin and licks it hard. “Oh, Clay.” Ah fuck. My body shudders and I explode with release, groaning deep. My entire body seizes up with the force of it and I clutch her against me. There’s no air left in the room, no cum left in my body. I just empty and empty into my fucking pants and hold her tight as if the world’s ending. Maybe it is. I just prematurely ejaculated with my dream girl in my arms. Fuuuuuck.

Natalie “Goddamn it,” Clay mutters against my shoulder. I just stroke his hair and press soft kisses to his wonderful-smelling skin. I don’t know what he uses, but it’s either the most incredible smelling bar of soap or he just naturally smells like heaven. Either way, I love having my face buried against

him. I don’t even care that he stopped petting me or that he jerked hard against my side, and now the fabric of his pants is all wet against my side. I’m just really enjoying myself. Well, okay, I’m a little disappointed I didn’t get to come. But god, it’s lovely to just be touched by another person. To be caressed and stroked and petted. I didn’t realize how hungry and starved for attention I was until Clay stormed back into my world. Even though I tell myself this isn’t any of my choice, I’m craving the touches, the kisses, the attention. “Fucking came in my pants like a kid,” Clay mutters, pulling his big body off of me. His hand leaves my panties and then I’m left on the bed all alone, sprawled and naked and still so needy. He gets off the bed and wanders away into the bathroom, stripping off clothes as he does. I catch a glimpse of buns—shockingly white buns compared to the deep brown of his back—and then he disappears behind a door, presumably to clean up. And I guess . . . I guess we’re done. I think. I remind myself that this is all at his discretion, and it doesn’t matter if I come or not. I can’t help but feel a little disappointed, of course. I grab one corner of the blankets and delicately tuck it around my body while I wait for him to return. I wonder if I should get up and leave. Does he want me to stay? Or is he

going to be angry that it happened and lash out at me? It doesn’t sound like the Clay I knew, but a lot of his demeanor doesn’t remind me of the Clay I knew. Sometimes it’s like he’s trying to be a completely different person. “Well,” Clay drawls from the bathroom, catching my wandering thoughts once more. “That wasn’t exactly how I planned for shit to go down. But we can look at this as a blessin’, I suppose, because—” He stops as he leaves the bathroom, bare-assed, and frowns at me. “What’re you coverin’ up for?” “I, uh, I don’t know,” I admit, distracted. I can’t stop staring. Clay’s completely and utterly naked. This is the first time I’ve ever seen his cock after years of wondering what kind of equipment he’d have. The severity of his tan lines are jarring, his skin above his waist a glorious warm brown, and the skin below his waist is what you would call . . . well, lily-white. He’s still incredibly muscular, though, and the tan line seems to cut right across his obliques, and from there, I can see everything. The line of hair that’s no more than a happy trail down his belly leads to the dark curls at his groin, and his cock juts out from there. Didn’t he just come? I didn’t expect it to look so . . . big. So deeply pink.

I . . . should have watched more porn us so I’d have more knowledge. Damn it. Books and movies don’t prepare you for your first time with a guy, not the way they should. Because what he has is pretty impressive and I wonder if he’s average or well endowed or if I have no clue, because he looks enormous to me. And it makes my thighs tighten together, just a bit. He moves to the side of the bed and then crawls back over to where I’m lying, throwing the blankets aside and revealing my body again. “Don’t you cover up from me. I like lookin’ at you.” He grins at me, teeth stark against his heavy beard. “It’s clear you like lookin’ at me, too.” “Hush,” I say, embarrassed. “I was just . . . looking,” I manage with a strangled admission. “You can look all you want.” At my silent nod, his amusement seems to increase. “You can ask questions, too, you know. I don’t bite.” “Are you a shower or a grower?” I blurt out. I figure I’ll never know unless I ask. Or, well, that’s not true. I can just wait until we have sex and see for myself. I feel stupid. Clay laughs. “Right now it’s a little of both. Dick’s still hard, but it’s not at full potential at the moment, because I busted a nut before I should have.” His eyes gleam. “It meet with your approval?”

“It’s fine,” I say primly. I do wish I hadn’t taken Lexi’s weird advice and “gone all Sasquatch.” I half want to ask him what he thinks of my pussy, but those words will never come out of my mouth. I’m too much Southerner, too much of a reserved Weston to ever say such things. “Like I said, though, I’m gonna look at this as a good thing.” He leans in and presses a light, flirty kiss to my mouth before giving me another devilish grin. “Why’s that?” “Because that means I’m gonna be able to go down on you until you come without worrying about if I’m gonna lose control. Already lost it, so the edge is gone.” He presses another kiss to my lips, then begins to slide lower on the bed. A worried squeak escapes my throat, the sound almost as embarrassing as what comes out of my mouth next. “You’re going to what?” “Go down on you, baby.” He’s already moving to the edge of the bed, and grabs me by the ankles, hauling me forward a good foot or so. “Been dreamin’ about getting my mouth on this pussy for ages. Now that I’ve seen how sweet it is, you think I’m gonna lose this opportunity?” I’m beyond flustered. Of course I want him to go down on me. At the same time, I’m utterly terrified. What if he doesn’t like my taste? What if

he thinks I . . . look strange? Oh god, why didn’t I freaking shave? I’m never listening to Lexi again. This is what I get for taking the advice of a woman who dresses up at Christmas as “Cthulhu’s Little Helper.” Lexi’s a sweetheart but perhaps not the best for dating advice. That does it. I’m picking up a Cosmo magazine the next time I go out. “Maybe,” I begin, rattled. “Should we wait? I mean, you don’t have to. It might not be your kind of thing or—” “Nat,” he says, glancing up at me even as he grabs the waistband of my bunched-up panties. “Stop talkin’ already. I’m doin’ this and you’re not gonna hem and haw your way outta things, all right?” Well, who am I to demand that a man not go down on me? I suppose if he doesn’t like it, I’ll know soon enough. Still, I can’t help but feel a little . . . stressed as I wait for the verdict. He said he liked the way I looked, but what if he hasn’t looked closely enough— My panties roll down my thighs and then Clay flings them to the floor. There’s a look of delight on his face, like it’s Christmas Day or something. One hand runs down my leg, his thumb skimming the inside of my thigh. “You really do have the best damn legs, Nat. Fuckin’ thick and juicy.” “You make me sound like a drumstick,” I mutter. Not exactly the sexy talk I was hoping for

to ease my worries. He just wiggles his eyebrows at me, grinning. “You know why? Because—” “If there’s a finger-licking joke in there, I’m getting off this bed right now,” I warn him. Clay throws his head back and roars with laughter, and I have to admit a little giggle sneaks out of me, too. “Busted,” he says between chuckles. “It was too good to pass up.” His grin turns sly and he leans down, kissing the inside of my knee. “Much like this pussy.” Oh, heaven help me. I watch as Clay drops to his knees. He pulls mine apart, spreading my legs, and I feel more open and vulnerable than ever before. My nervousness ratchets up and I can’t help but hold my breath, waiting. Waiting for his mouth to touch me, or for him to get up and decide he doesn’t want to bother. I don’t know what to expect. Then his hand goes to my knee, and I practically jump off the bed in my anxiety. “Don’t be scared,” he murmurs. “This ain’t gonna hurt a bit.” I give a little snort, because that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard yet. Of course it’s not going to hurt. I’m distracted, though, and I don’t realize how far in he is until I feel his beard brush against the inside of my thigh. Oh god. He’s about to—

And then he is. And then I’m melting. His mouth goes over my pussy and I feel his tongue drag against the seam. He makes a low humming sound in his throat, and then parts my folds with his fingers, and licks me again. This time, I feel his tongue move directly over my clit. I nearly come off the bed. This feels . . . indescribable. I literally have no words, no thoughts, no nothing. I’m just a big ball of mush. My bones? Gone. Voice? Gone. Everything is gone except my ability to feel—and it’s all concentrated squarely on wherever his tongue lands. Clay makes that noise again, and I realize it’s not a hum as much as it is a groan. “Lemme know if I’m doin’ it in a way you don’t like,” he murmurs, and his beard brushes against the insides of my thighs again, tickling me. I can hear him kiss my pussy—oh god—and then his tongue drags over my skin again. “Wanna make this good for you.” I’m having a hard time thinking. I’m having a hard time doing anything other than just melting in the bed. “S’good,” I breathe. “Y-you okay?” He presses a kiss to my inner thigh, right where my leg meets my pussy, and it’s the most erotic thing ever. “Better than okay. Mind if I stay down here awhile?” Do I mind? Is he crazy? “Only if you want to.”

“Baby, there is nothing I want more. You taste fuckin’ amazin’.” As if to prove his words, his head ducks down again and I feel his beard against my thighs a moment before his mouth goes over my clit again. This time I can’t help the needy cry that escapes my throat. I press a hand to my forehead, as if that’ll somehow help me hold it together. “That feel good?” he rasps, and presses his tongue against my clit again. A second later, he’s using it the same way I showed him how to touch me—light pressure around my clit instead of directly over it. And dear god, it feels amazing. I’ve never felt anything better—until he hitches one of my legs over his shoulder and slides a finger deep inside me. My entire body jerks in response, and I feel as if I’m about to explode. “Clay,” I pant, and my hands go to his head, as if I can hold him in just the right spot. “Come for me, Nat,” he growls against my thighs. His tongue circles my clit again and his finger pumps inside me. “Want you to come all over my face.” The little cry is building inside me, and I dig my fingers into his thick hair. Oh god, I want to come, too. I want to come so badly. He redoubles his efforts, finger thrusting deep as well as his mouth and tongue working over my clit.

I tighten my grip on him, because I’m so close and yet terrified he’s going to pull away, or change his rhythm, and that elusive, slowly building orgasm is going to disappear before— And then it happens. Everything in my body seems to clench all at once, and something bursts inside me. I cry out, even as Clay continues to work me with his mouth and fingers, and then I’m coming so hard I’m seeing stars. Over and over, the pleasure washes through me, stunning in its intensity. I’ve never come so hard before. Masturbation has nothing to the reality of Clay’s mouth. I’m lost to the world, riding the wave of pleasure, until he lifts his head and his fingers slide out of me. He presses little kisses to the inside of my knee, his beard tickling my skin, and I sigh heavily when all of the strength ebbs out of me. God, that was . . . Yeah. I have no words. I’m just stunned at the intensity of it all. His teeth scrape against my inner thigh and Clay strokes my leg. “Feel all right?” “Mmm, yes,” I breathe. I feel better than all right. I feel . . . remade. Like I’ve been beaten to a pulp (in a good way) and then reshaped again. It’s a weird sensation. He chuckles. “Good. I’m gonna go grab a condom.” He gives my knee one more kiss and then bounds up from the floor. It takes my dazed brain a

moment to realize what he’s just said, and by the time I sit up, he’s returning, a small foil packet in hand. I watch as he rips it open and then pauses by the end of the bed to roll it down his length. I’m fascinated by the flushed color of his skin down there, as well as the thickness of his length. Definitely bigger than before. Definitely fascinating. Definitely fills me with a lot of emotions at the sight. Part of me’s not ready. Part of me can’t wait for what’s next. But then Clay’s climbing back into the bed and in the next moment, he’s over me. His mouth finds mine and then he’s kissing me with deep, hungry strokes of his tongue even as his weight settles over my body. And god, he feels incredible. The sensation of his weight pressing over me is surprisingly delicious, and I don’t protest when he puts a hand on the inside of my knee and pushes my thighs apart so he can move between my legs. His kisses are wildly distracting, and I wrap my arms around his neck, lost to the siren call of his incredible mouth. I love kissing him. I could cheerfully kiss for hours and never grow tired of it. How have I gone seven long years without kissing Clay Price? I’ve missed it so much. I’ve missed him so much. Clay reaches between us and his weight shifts on top of me. He braces one arm next to my head,

and then I feel him drag the head of his cock up and down my folds. I squirm against him, sucking in a breath. “Clay?” “S’okay, baby,” he murmurs, and presses light, feathery kisses to my mouth once more. “Just getting things good and slick so I can push inside you easier.” His tongue brushes against the seam of my mouth, and then he groans. “Love how fuckin’ wet you are, Nat. Feel how slick.” And he drags the head of his cock up and down my folds again. I gasp when it brushes over my clit, sending little flutters of pleasure through my body again. He kisses me again and then his weight shifts. The hard length of him is suddenly pressing against the entrance to my core, and it feels a little . . . intimidatingly large. I hold tightly on to him and close my eyes. I’m pretty sure this is going to hurt. “I’ve got you, Nat,” he whispers. And then he pushes inside me. It doesn’t hurt. Not exactly. But it doesn’t feel great, either. The overwhelming sensation is that of tightness, and little twinges of discomfort shoot through me. It’s not painful, but at the same time, it’s not exactly fun, either. But Clay groans deeply, and he presses his face against my neck, his weight on top of me. “God, Nat. You feel incredible. You’re so . . . tight.”

“It does feel tight,” I say softly. Even if I’m not enjoying this part, I love his reaction to it. I’m sure it’ll get better with time, so I stroke his arm and just touch his skin, getting the pleasure I can out of this. Next time, it’ll be better. Next time it’ll be awesome. Heck, I already had one orgasm. More than that would just be greedy. “Gonna go slow,” he rasps. “For you.” I want to protest that he can go faster if it’ll speed things along, but then he pumps into me and I suck in a breath. Even though there was some discomfort with that, it also felt . . . good. Clay’s mouth descends on mine again, even as he thrusts into me. I make a sound of surprise, because the ache is ebbing away and is quickly being replaced by a different kind of enjoyment. It doesn’t feel as intense as when he went down on me, but with each thrust, he rubs against something deep inside of me that feels better and better. He lifts his mouth from mine. “Still hurt?” I shake my head. There’s a lot of ways I could describe this, but “painful” isn’t one of them. As he continues to move on top of me, the enjoyable feeling slowly increases. I wouldn’t say it’s mindblowing pleasure, but it has potential to get there, and I start to meet his thrusts with little raises of my hips, trying to increase the sensation. As I do, Clay groans. “God, you’re so fuckin’ gorgeous, Nat.” He grabs my leg and hitches it

around his hip. “Want you to come again. Love seein’ your face when you do. Love the sounds you make.” Well, I kind of want to come again, too. I nod and keep lifting my hips in time with him, though I’m not as good at keeping a steady rhythm as he is. My movements become awkward and I pause, only to have him kiss me fiercely again. His hand goes to my breast and he squeezes it, even as he thrusts fiercely into me. It feels so good that I whimper. He makes a low sound in his throat and the hand at my hip holds me tighter. He pumps into me with renewed enthusiasm, as if by the sheer force of his will he can make me come. It’s working, too. As his movements increase, so does my pleasure. His movements are rougher, our bodies flung together with great force, and the elusive feeling is becoming less and less elusive and more like a sure thing. “Clay,” I pant, digging my nails into his shoulders and squirming underneath him, as if that will somehow help. “Clay, please.” “Need you to come,” he groans. “Please, baby. I’m so close. Don’t wanna go . . . without you.” “Trying,” I whimper. But the more I think about it, the more it seems to slip away. It’s like I was close . . . and then suddenly not so much. Should I fake it just so he can finish?

But then he growls low in his throat and shifts his weight, and then I realize he’s not lying on top of me as much as he’s sitting back on his heels, cock still buried deep inside me. He studies my body, spread out below him, and then then puts a hand over the mound of my pussy. I can’t figure out what he’s doing until his thumb brushes over my clit, and he begins to give it little circles. A hoarse cry escapes me. That—holy crap— that feels a thousand times more intense with his cock buried deep inside me than it did before. My entire body responds and I’m practically coming off the bed. “That’s right,” Clay murmurs, and there’s deep satisfaction in his voice. “You come for me, baby. Come around my cock. Wanna feel it while I’m deep inside you.” I can’t respond—I’m too busy squirming and sobbing. I’m completely incoherent, and it feels like the greatest pleasure ever—and like I’m trying to come out of my skin at the same time. Everything is just so intense. This time, when I come, it feels as if all the air has been sucked out of the room. I’m gasping like a drowning woman, and when he keeps rubbing my clit, my gasping gets louder and louder, until I’m wailing my pleasure. I have to push his hand away before I can get my release, because it just keeps going.

Then, Clay is back over me again, driving hard into my pussy. He thrusts deep, over and over, and I’m coming all over again, and it’s that deep, intense feeling instead of the quick explosion. “Can feel you,” he grits out. “Squeezin’ my cock.” He clenches my shoulder and buries his face against my neck, and then his entire body shudders against mine. I’m barely aware as he surges over me in jerky motions, his own orgasm taking him. I’m too lost in mine, and in the pleasure that seems to flow on forever. I just feel so . . . good. Wrecked in the very best of ways. Wow. Clay shifts, and I realize he’s collapsed on top of me. His weight adjusts and then I can feel him slide out of my body. He leans in, presses a quick kiss to my mouth, and then bounds off the bed as if he’s got endless amounts of energy. Somehow. “Now, that,” he says, tossing a grin over his shoulder at me, “was the best thing I’ve ever paid for.” It’s like a slap in the face. All the pleasure I’ve had vanishes in a single moment. He’s not wrong. He did pay for me. I sold myself to someone for money. To my ex. And he hasn’t even tried to be nice about it. Oh sure, he’s nice right now, but that’s because he just got laid. I look over at his sculpted, tanned

body, watching his movements as he peels the condom off over a garbage can. He’s so different. And I can’t quite forget what a jerk he’s been since he came back into my life. He’s been highhanded, rude, and he’s made me feel terrible. Like the comment just now. This should have been a good moment, at least for a little while longer. Instead, I feel dirty. I sit up in bed, tears pooling in my eyes. “Think I’m going to go clean up,” I manage, my voice hoarse. Clay turns and looks over at me, a frown on his face. “You okay?” I somehow force a smile to my face. “Fine.” And I rush for the bathroom, locking the door behind me. Once I’m inside, I put the lid down on the toilet and sit down. I’m trembling. I knew what I was getting into. I just didn’t think his words would have the power to hurt me that much. I thought that once I agreed to this, I’d be Teflon. I knew what I was getting into and it didn’t matter what he thought of me. Stupid, stupid me.

Clay

She’s crying. Nat’s trying really hard to be quiet, but even on this side of the door, I can hear her sniffles. I feel like the world’s biggest asshole. Here I thought the sex had been good. Great, even. My mind is still whirling with how good she felt underneath me, and I want nothing more than to fling that door open, drag her back to bed, and claim her again. I’m filled with possessiveness and the need to protect . . . but I don’t know what to do about her tears. I’ve hurt her. I don’t know if it’s because of the sex or if it’s because I had ta open my big mouth and remind her that I paid for her. Either way, I fucked up. I don’t know how to fix it. I did pay for her. I forced her into my bed because I knew she was broke and desperate. I didn’t think I’d care. Thought I could be ruthless. A scoundrel. I’m clearly an idiot, ’cause right about now, all I want is to comfort Natalie and prove to her how much I love her. That I ain’t never stopped lovin’ her. But I made her cry after we had sex. If that ain’t a dick shriveler, I don’t know what is. It’s clear I’ve been pushin’ too hard. The moment I saw her today, I made her kiss me. Made her dress up and dance to my tune at dinner, and

then immediately took her back to the hotel and pawed her. I’m movin’ too fast. We dated for eighteen months in the past and I never made it below her belt. Now in the space of a day, I took her virginity. No, didn’t take it. I paid for it. That’s a hell of a lot to process, even for me. I can’t imagine how she feels. I know right now, I feel ashamed. I didn’t do this right. I should have met with her again, asked to have dinner. Reconnected like normal fucking people instead of being the “scoundrel” with no feelings. That ain’t me. It’s never been me. And now I’ve fucked up the only thing I ever cared about. I hurt the only woman I ever wanted. I get up and tug on my pants, then shove my feet into my boots. I grab my phone and a shirt, then head over to the door, where she’s quietly tryin’ not to cry and failin’. I knock softly. “J-just a moment,” she calls out, and there’s a wobble in her voice that tells me I ain’t wrong, that she’s definitely cryin’. I swallow hard. I don’t know what to say. “I’m sorry” seems kinda false because truth is, I knew exactly what I was doin’. I’m just sorry it hurt her feelings. And as an apology, that rings kinda hollow. So I swallow it back and try somethin’ else. “I’m goin’ out for a while,” I tell her. “Stay in the room. I’ll be back soon.” I worry she won’t stay after all.

That she’ll run and our contract will be over. Panic makes me add, “I ain’t done with you yet.” I wince the moment the words come out of my mouth, because that sounds bad. It goes quiet in the bathroom. “You hear what I said?” I call. “I heard it.” Her voice is flat. “I won’t go anywhere.” I grunt acknowledgment, and scratch at my beard. Shit. I’m fuckin’ this up more and more with every moment. Time to take a step back. I cast one last unhappy look at the bathroom door, and then leave the hotel room.

Chapter Ten Three Days Later

Natalie Knock knock knock. I put the rental movie on pause and get up from the bed, frowning at just how loud the knock was. Room service? They’re usually a lot quieter. I straighten my pajamas just in case it’s Clay, run a hand through my hair, and then head to the door. A quick glance in the peephole shows a slender figure with dark hair, dressed in all black and carrying a pizza box, and I don’t know whether to be excited or annoyed. I open the door and tilt my head. “What are you doing here, Lexi?” “I heard someone was in need of pizza and sarcasm,” my best friend says in her flat, deadpan voice. “Lucky for you, my only appointment canceled on me today.” “Canceled on you or you canceled on them?”

She shrugs, pushing past me into the hotel room. “I might have mentioned something about needing to commune with my dark overlord.” I roll my eyes. Lexi’s the weirdest person I know, but I also know she’s a sweetheart. Underneath the dark clothing and gothic commentary is the kindest, gentlest person, who will drive hours just to bring her depressed friend a pizza. “You’re such a goober.” “Don’t ruin my reputation as a minion of evil,” she says, setting the pizza down and then curling her legs under her on the couch. She’s wearing black-and-red-striped stockings under a long black sweater—unusual wear given that it’s summer in Texas, but that’s Lexi for you. “How are you doing? I’m worried about you.” She sticks her lower lip out. “You make me sad, and you know I don’t like human emotions.” I can’t help but smile at her commentary. I grab one of the fluffy pillows from the bed and sit on the end of it, cross-legged. “I’m hanging in there.” “And where is Prince-Not-So-Charming?” I shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine. I haven’t seen him since that day.” Lexi makes a face. “But he wants you to stay here, on call, just in case he needs a little somesome to get him through the workweek?” “I guess.” I never thought it’d be something Clay would pull, but I have to keep reminding

myself that just because he has moments where he seems like the old Clay, he’s had just as many where he is the new Clay . . . And the new Clay’s a real prick. “I stopped by your dad’s place to say hello,” Lexi comments when I grow quiet. I perk up. “How is he? I’ve gotten lots of texts and some pictures, but it’s nothing like being home.” His nurses have been fantastic and keep me constantly updated, but I worry. Of course I worry. I’ve got nothing to do all day but sit here, wait for Clay, and worry. “Well, the nurses are so cheerful that I had to stop in the parking lot and vomit.” “No, you didn’t.” “Okay, I didn’t. But they’re still revoltingly cheerful. And happy. Your dad was having a middling day when I went,” she tells me, lifting a hand and giving it a back-and-forth shake. “Thought he was in a movie, but having a great time reading lines in a script with the nurses. They love him, by the way. Everyone was so happy it made me wish a tapeworm on them.” She gives a little nod to punctuate her weird comment. “I’m glad,” I say softly. I really am. As long as Dad’s happy, I don’t mind that he’s living in the past. The “happy” part is what’s important. “How did the place look?”

“Completely different,” Lexi admits. “The parking lot is roped off because it’s being poured, the outside of the house is completely repainted, and the roof is being redone. There’s people everywhere updating everything. It all looks brand new.” Lexi narrows her eyes. “I hated it.” I snort. “You hated it because it looked good?” “And cheerful. So cheerful. You know I hate cheer.” My lips twitch. “Which is why you decided to become a yoga instructor.” “Of course. Have you heard the cries of pain people make when I tell them to get into pigeon pose? It brings joy to my black, shriveled soul.” She mock-shivers. “You’re weird.” “Thank you.” Lexi gestures at the pizza. “Eat some of the carbohydrates I brought you. I’d say it’s good for you, but we both know I’m lying.” I get up from the bed and take a slice of pizza. “Thanks for coming by.” “What are friends for? Besides, the moment you told me where you were staying, I wanted to come. Rumor has it that the fourteenth floor is haunted.” Her eyes gleam. “Wanna switch rooms to the fourteenth floor?” “Nope.” I move back to the bed with my pizza slice. “I’m staying here, just like the jerk told me to.”

Lexi sighs dramatically and gets a slice of pizza for herself, then folds her legs gracefully in a crosslegged pose until the soles of her feet are turned to the ceiling. She’s so graceful. I’d be jealous if I didn’t adore her so much, weirdness and all. “So you’re still obeying all the rules he gave you? That’s no fun.” “I don’t have much of a choice.” The pizza’s cold and greasy but I don’t care. I take a bite anyhow. “He’s paying for so much stuff that it makes my head spin. I don’t get the right to complain about anything.” “Was he a shitty lay?” She plucks a pepperoni off her slice and nibbles on it. “Guys with lots of money are normally overcompensating for a physical lack.” “There’s no physical lack,” I say, blushing. Lexi knows how I feel about Clay, and she’s just trying to get a rise out of me—or make me feel better. “Like I told you in my text, there was nothing wrong with the stuff in bed. It’s just out of bed . . . he’s an asshole.” Lexi’s been my constant text companion over the last few days, since I’ve had nothing to do but stew over how wronged I’ve been. “It’s entirely possible that he’s not gifted with a silver tongue like yours truly,” Lexi says. “Maybe he put his foot in his mouth and now feels too embarrassed to show up and apologize.”

“Now I think you’re giving him too much credit,” I tell her wryly. “I’ve been trying to figure him out for days, and I can’t. The room’s paid up and the staff are under instruction that I can have anything I want and it’ll just be charged to the room. So he must be coming back—” “Anything? Charged to the room?” Lexi interrupts, an interested look on her face. “Before you say it, we’re not getting strippers, Lexi.” She pouts. “But think of the delicious irony.” “I don’t want to think about irony. Or strippers. I just want Clay to come back and set me free.” I stare down at my half-eaten slice of pizza. I’m not hungry. Normally I try to eat my feelings about my dad and my situation, but lately I haven’t had any appetite at all. This situation with Clay has me feeling lower than low, and helpless. So helpless. “Do you really want to be set free?” Lexi asks me. “Or do you want him to come back and bone you to death if he promises not to speak anymore?” Good question. I can’t deny that I have been thinking about the sex constantly. Because, okay, the sex was great. I’m sad we didn’t get to have sex again. I’m sad that now I’m constantly thinking about Clay and the way his body felt over mine, or that nudge I felt just before his cock sank into me . . .

But I also can’t deny that he’s hurt my feelings, badly. And just disappearing for days on end? Who does that? What am I supposed to think? Did I do something wrong? He said I didn’t, and that he enjoyed himself . . . but he’s also left and hasn’t returned. Hasn’t texted. Hasn’t called. Right now I feel like discarded trash. “You know what this calls for?” Lexi announces, interrupting my thoughts. “A Kardashians marathon?” I tease. The horrified look she gives me is worth it. “I was thinking more like Ghost Hunters. And then after midnight, we can go up to the fourteenth floor and see if we can commune with spirits.” “Or we can just watch Alien Encounters and eat pizza and talk about what a terrible person Clay is and I’ll go into great detail about how miserable he made me.” I try to give her a brave smile, but I feel like crying all over again. I shouldn’t be this affected by a day or two spent with Clay Price, but I am. I’m utterly miserable. She unfolds her legs from the couch and moves to my side. Her arm goes around my shoulders. “Oh, Natalie. You know I like everyone’s misery but yours.” I rest my head on her shoulder. “Thanks, Lex.” “Of course,” she says, patting my head like I’m a dog. “Let’s compromise. We’ll stay in and watch

The Bachelor and question everyone’s life choices.” I chuckle despite my unhappiness. “Sounds like a plan.”

Clay “What’s crawled up your ass?” Seth grabs a beer from my fridge and plops down on the ramshackle couch in the living room of my single-wide. Ever since Boone got married and tore down his trailer, mine’s become the unofficial meeting spot of all our brothers. “Shouldn’t you be at work?” He should be out in West Texas, roughnecking. Even though he gets his share of the Price Brothers Oil money, Boone wants him to do his turn on the rigs so he can appreciate how good we have it. I glare at him from my side of the couch, my arms crossed over my chest. I’m sittin’ in front of the TV, mopin’, just like I have for the last few days. “Shouldn’t you be watchin’ somethin’ other than Animal Planet?” Seth retorts, grabbing the control from my side of the couch and turning the TV to wrestling. I shrug. Wasn’t watchin’ it. Wasn’t doin’ much other than thinkin’ about Nat. How I done fucked

up everything all over again. How I’m gonna get her to forgive me when I’ve done the unforgivable. Seth just gives me a weird look. “What’s wrong with you?” “Nothing.” Don’t feel like talking about it, especially to my youngest brother. He’s clueless about women. Not that I’m exactly killing it in that area, either. The door to my trailer opens and Knox strolls in. Fuckin’ great. “Let me guess, Gage is about to show up, too.” “Damn,” Knox says, unruffled by my surly attitude. “Someone’s got blue balls like crazy.” He heads to the fridge and studies my beer collection. “All you got is Natty? No Corona?” “I got the last one,” Seth says, taking a swig of his beer in triumph. Knox comes over and grabs it out of Seth’s hand, and then the two start wrestlin’ over the damn bottle. Normally I’d join in for a bit of horseplay and noogie Seth on the head a few times, but it don’t appeal to me much today. Not much does. I just glare at the two of ’em. “Ain’t y’all got somewhere else to be?” They stop and stare at me like I’ve grown another head. “I think our brother’s sick,” Seth says. “This ain’t like him.” Knox just gives me a knowing smile. “Things goin’ bad with Natalie?”

“Natalie?” Seth looks interested. “Like, Natalie from back when you were in high school Natalie? Is that the girl you were yakking about the other day?” I just glare at Knox. He had to open his big mouth. “Fuck off.” “Wait, what’s going on with Natalie?” Seth tries to wrestle his beer back from Knox’s hands. “Why is this the first time I’m hearin’ about it? Here I thought you were all talky because you got your dick wet. Why didn’t anyone tell me it was high school Natalie?” The last thing I want to do is talk about this to both of them. “‘Cause it ain’t none of your business? Both of you, get out of here. Leave me the fuck alone.” They both seem surprised at my reaction. I’m normally the one that doesn’t mind company, or horseplay. Tonight, though, I just wanna be left alone to mope, like I have for the last few days. Knox hands the beer back to Seth. “You should head out, man. Me and Clay need to talk.” Seth makes a sound of protest. “Why do I have to leave? I was here first—” “‘Cause if you don’t, I’m gonna tell Boone you’ve skipped out on work twice this week and I had to lie to your foreman for you.” “Damn it,” Seth whines, and flings himself up off the couch. “Fine, but I’m takin’ the new

Madden game with me.” He snatches it off my TV. I just shrug. Whatever. Ain’t been in the mood for games. I stare at the TV and the match on screen without really seeing it. Seth storms off, and then Knox gets up and locks the front door, then returns to the far end of the couch, thumping down. He gives me a curious look. “Operation: Scoundrel not going so well?” “More like Operation: Dumbass,” I bite out. “Or Operation: Asshole.” “She not put out?” Knox asks mildly. I give him a scathing look. I want to tell him to fuck off for even darin’ to mention my Natalie like that, but the need to unburden myself is eatin’ away at my gut. After a moment, I admit, “I made her cry.” “So?” Rage boils through me. He doesn’t care that I fucking hurt her? Because I fucking care. “What do you mean, so?” Knox just gives me a calm, steady look. “You’re the one that’s supposed to be ruthless, bro. Supposed to finally get what you want from her, no feelin’s involved.” He gives his head a slow shake. “Should have known that you wouldn’t be able to hold it together. You’re too nice.” I don’t feel particularly nice right now. I feel kinda like a creep. A user. A guy that made his girl cry. “I’m just fuckin’ up everything.”

“You might be,” Knox agrees cheerfully. “What was her mood like this mornin’?” I glare at him. “That bad?” “It’s none of your business.” Knox grabs one of the couch cushions and smacks me with it. “I’m tryin’ to help you, idiot. Just spit it out already. Can’t be that bad.” I clench my jaw and snag the cushion when he hits me with it, and then I throw it across the room. “I don’t know what her mood was like this morning,” I admit. “Or yesterday morning. I’ve been avoiding her for three days. Ever since . . .” I snap my jaw, going silent. Doesn’t feel right talking about sex with Natalie in front of Knox. That shit’s private. My brother’s silent. I glance over at him and he’s staring at me with wide eyes. “You haven’t seen her in three days?” “No,” I admit gruffly. “And the last time you saw her, you made her cry?” I nod, silent. I ain’t proud. I just want to know how to fix it. “Was it something you said?” When I glare at him, he chuckles. “Never mind. Of course it was. So how come you haven’t seen her in three days?” I scrub at my face with my hand. “Just . . . I don’t know. Didn’t want to look at her and see the

hurt in her eyes. Thought it might be best if I left her alone.” “I’m pretty sure abandoning a chick after you nailed her isn’t gonna make things better,” Knox says in a mild voice. “In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s gonna make it worse.” “Well, what the fuck else am I supposed to do?” “You try apologizing?” he asks. I’m silent. Because no, I didn’t try apologizin’. Didn’t seem right. I’m sorry I stuck my dick in you and we both enjoyed it until you didn’t. I just . . . up and left. And told her not to leave because I hadn’t finished with her yet. Yeah, I think I’m fucking this up good. Ugh. “I screwed up,” I admit to Knox. “Figure at this point if I just say ‘sorry’ it’s gonna piss her off more.” “So you’re just going to keep ignoring her?” His eyebrows go up. “Can I just go on record sayin’ that this is a bad idea?” I’m sure he ain’t wrong. “I don’t know how to fix this shit.” “Depends on how you want it fixed. What do you want from her? Just a bit of pussy now and then? You already got that.” I’m silent, rubbing my knuckles as I think. There’s no encouraging message written there today. If I did, it’d be a S for “stupid” instead of “scoundrel.” Right now I’m feeling plenty stupid. I don’t got a lot of experience on how to keep a girl

happy. I’m clearly terrible at it. “I want her to smile when I touch her instead of cryin’.” “You want her to be in love with you,” Knox says bluntly. “Thought there weren’t gonna be any emotions attached in this scenario?” I scrub at my beard with my hand. Even that small movement makes me think about how my beard rubbed her face raw. It’s like everything I do is totally thoughtless and fucks her up. Man. I am such an ass. “That was before I saw her again. I think I’m still in love with her, Knox. I just want her to be happy. I want her back. Thought I was mad at her for all that shit seven years ago, but . . . I think I just want her.” “You got her. You paid her to be yours.” The thought makes my gut clench. “I don’t want her like that.” “How do you want her, then?” I want her smiling and willing. I want her to love me. I want her eyes to get soft when she looks at me, and I want her to curl up against me when she’s sleepy. I want my hand on her knee as we have dinner. I want her laughter. I want her everything. “Not forced to be with me,” I say softly. “I want her to be with me because she wants to be there.” Knox snorts. “Then romance her, ya dumbass.” “Don’t think I can un-ring that bell,” I tell him flatly. “I screwed up any chance I had of romancing

her with this whole ‘pay her to be my assistant’ thing. It was a dumb fuckin’ idea.” “It’s not a dumb idea,” Knox insists. “You’re just goin’ about it like a dummy.” I scowl at him. “It’s true. The assistant thing just gets you in the door. Means she has to listen to you. Doesn’t mean ya own her. Now that you got her and she has to listen to you, now you turn on the charm. Bein’ a scoundrel doesn’t mean bein’ a dick. It just means bein’ a little unscrupulous now and then to get her to pay attention. She’s payin’ attention now, so now you can lay on the charm.” He crosses his arms over his chest and looks smug. “Though you might have a ways to go before you get out of the doghouse. But it can still be done. You just need to lay it on thick. And if she tries to run or push you away, you just wave that contract in her face. You’ll wear her down eventually.” “So . . . you’re sayin’ I should hammer romance at her until she gives in?” Knox nods sagely. “Precisely.” It ain’t the worst idea.

Chapter Eleven

Natalie My phone buzzes with an incoming text, rousing me out of sleep. I roll over in bed and snag it, shielding the screen so it doesn’t wake up Lexi. We had an impromptu slumber party last night, complete with the cold pizza, room service desserts, M&Ms from the mini-fridge, and a reality TV marathon. It almost made me feel better about the shit-show that is my life. I frown when the message on the screen is from Clay and not Alice the nurse, like I expected. Carefully, I tuck my phone against my chest and tiptoe out to the bathroom, away from Lexi’s snoring. Once there, I hop up on the counter and begin to read. CLAY: SORRY IVE BEEN ABSENT CLAY: SHIT CAPSLOCK CLAY: Sorry. Trying again. I hope you are well. I’ve been absent the last few days due to work stuff. Hope you are doing okay

back at the hotel. If you need anything, let me know and I’ll make sure it’s delivered to you today. I hope you are well. NATALIE: Did you just . . . ask me if I was well three times in a row? Are you drunk? CLAY: No. I’m just not good at this texting shit. Should I have sent some smiley faces? My screen fills with a few random emojis, and I have to bite back my laughter. This is just ridiculous. Cute, but ridiculous. My wounded heart feels a little better at hearing from him. Not much, but some. NATALIE: You can skip the emojis, I promise. And I’m fine, though I wish you would have said something about work a few days ago. I’ve been feeling stressed and abandoned. Did I do something wrong? CLAY: No, I’m just an asshole. I’m sorry, Nat. I keep fucking this shit up. I’m gonna be better about things, okay? I promise. And I’ll be there in about an hour to pick you up. Do you have a swimsuit or do you need to get one? I can wire money to the front desk. NATALIE: A swimsuit? CLAY: Yeah, there’s a family gettogether. We’re going tubing. You ever been?

NATALIE: No. What do I need to bring? CLAY: Just a swimsuit and a towel. And sunblock. I’ll handle the rest. Just look pretty. CLAY: Of course, you always look pretty. So just look like you. CLAY: Didn’t mean to imply you weren’t pretty. I think you’re gorgeous. CLAY: Perfect. NATALIE: Are you flirting to make up for how you left in the middle of the night? CLAY: Trying to. Is it working? NATALIE: I’m still hurt. You sure I didn’t piss you off? CLAY: Not at all. We’ll talk more in person, okay? Feels weird to do it over text. My thumbs keep getting in the way. Just know that I am not mad, you are perfect, and I will be there in an hour. NATALIE: If you’re sure you’re not mad. You do realize you bought me and can tell me to shut up if I piss you off, right? CLAY: I would never tell you to shut up. NATALIE: Okay, well . . . can I bring a friend on this tubing trip if it’s a bigger gettogether? My friend Lexi came over to keep me company while you were, uh, gone. CLAY: Sure. Bring her along. If she don’t mind hanging out with a bunch of my brothers. NATALIE: She won’t mind.

CLAY: Ok see you in an hour. NATALIE: Can you make it 2? I have to find a swimsuit ASAP. CLAY: Two it is. Be there soon. I race out of the bathroom and head to the bed, shaking Lexi’s shoulder. “Wake up! We have to go shopping right away.” Lexi sits up, a bleary-eyed expression on her face. “What? What?” “I need you to go tubing with me today.” I sit down on the edge of the bed and clasp my hands. “It’s with Clay and his family.” “Clay, the bastard Clay?” She rubs a hand over her face and smears old eye makeup. “The one that’s ignored you for three days?” “Yeah, that’s the one. He said he was sorry and he’ll explain to me when we get there. So, will you go with me?” She groans as if she’s in pain. “When is it?” “He’s picking me up in two hours and I need a swimsuit before then.” She groans again and pulls a pillow over her face. “Must we ‘people’ before noon?” “You have to go swimsuit shopping with me,” I tell her, undaunted. “And then you have to go to tubing with me.” “You know I hate sunlight,” she tells me from beneath the pillow. “And society. But mostly

sunlight.” “It sounds like Clay’s family is going to be there. Lots and lots of billionaires.” “Don’t care.” “They’re weird,” I say cajolingly. Lexi pulls the pillow down and gives me a contemplative look. “How weird?” “Human-train-wreck weird,” I tell her. I actually don’t know if that’s the case. But I do remember the Price brothers vaguely from my time back in high school, and when Knox showed up with Clay the other day, he looked as much of a mess as Clay did. So I feel they’ll be sufficiently weird enough for Lexi. “All right, I’m in,” she tells me. “But you can’t make me wear florals.” “I wouldn’t dream of it.” * * * An hour and a half later, I have a small bag packed with sunblock, flip-flops, a towel, and a swimsuit. Pickings were slim considering the early hour and the last-minute nature of things, and I’m lucky I found a one-piece that covers everything and doesn’t look heinous. It’s bright red, and has a low cut front that made Lexi smirk and crack jokes about Baywatch, but it doesn’t look all that terrible. I have a crochet white shrug for my shoulders, and

I’m wearing jeans and a plain pink T-shirt while we wait for Clay to arrive. Lexi, meanwhile, is dressed in true Lexi form. She’s wearing a black dress over black leggings and has her long dark hair parted down the center of her head. She found a black swimsuit, since she’s a tiny, limber twig of a human, and she looks like Morticia Addams come to life, a comparison she adores. And she’s calm. So calm. As I sit on the end of the bed and twitch, she’s calmly doing yoga asanas in the middle of the floor. Me, I’m nervous. I’m about to see Clay again, and we’re going to talk. The thought is filling me with all kinds of anxiety. What if he’s letting me off the hook? What if he’s decided that he’s gotten what he wants out of our deal? What if the reason why he left is because he’s not attracted to me, or he’s done with me, and those reassuring texts were just so he could let me down in person? “You’re destroying my Zen,” Lexi calls from her spot on the floor. Her eyes are closed and her palms are pressed together under her chin. “Either come join me and relax, or go vibrate with bad energy somewhere else.” “It’s my hotel room,” I remind her. “Yes, and it’d look super weird if your guest was doing yoga in the hall, wouldn’t it?” She pats

the floor. “Come on. Do yoga with me. I’ll go easy on you.” I pull my phone out. “Actually I think I’ll go in the hall and check in on my father.” “Coward.” She’s not wrong about that. I’m utterly terrible at yoga and I always feel like a clunky, ungainly elephant next to Lexi’s graceful gestures. “Be back soon.” “I’ll be here.” I head into the hall, leaving my bag on the bed. It’s quiet out here, the only sound that of a vacuum a few doors down. I lean against the wall and then sink down to the floor, dialing Alice’s number. The nurse answers on the second ring. “Oh, Ms. Weston. How are you today?” She sounds a little stressed. In the background, I can hear sobbing. Male sobbing. That has to be my father. My heart squeezes painfully. “I thought I’d call and see how Dad’s doing.” “He’s not having a good day,” Alice tells me in a kind voice. “He’s been very upset all morning. I didn’t want to text you and worry you. It’s just a spell and he’ll recover soon enough. I’ve called in the weekend nurse and we’re not leaving him alone, I assure you.” It’s that bad that Alice had to get reinforcements? “Should I come home? I’m only a

few hours away—” “No, no,” Alice reassures me. “It’s handled. This is part of the job, though one of the less charming aspects. It’s just one of those things that comes with dementia, as I’m sure you know. Even if you were here, I don’t know that you could help. He doesn’t recognize anyone today.” My stomach burns with a mixture of guilt and nerves. It should be me there taking care of my father. “But if I can help—” “You cannot, Ms. Weston. I promise you that it’s handled. I don’t want you to worry. When he’s lucid again, I’ll make sure he calls you, all right? It’s truly nothing to worry over.” The crying on the other end dies down a little, and turns into angry yelling. I wince into the phone. “If you’re sure.” “I’m sure. This is our job. You’re welcome to check in as often as you like,” Alice says kindly. “Thank you, I will.” I hesitate, then add, “I’ll try and visit this weekend if possible.” I can talk to Clay about it, let him know how my father’s doing. Surely he won’t mind a visit. “I’m sure your father will like that. I’ll tell him when he’s himself again.” Her voice is cheerful throughout the strain. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Ms. Weston?” “No, thank you.” I hang up, troubled. Not for the first time, I worry that I’ve somehow made the

wrong choice. That I’ve picked my own selfish wants and needs over that of my ailing father. Then, of course, I wonder how much of that is guilt and how much is truth. Sometimes it’s so hard to tell. And isn’t this for my father, in the end? So I can pay off his debts and get the house fixed up? Lies, a little voice whispers in my head. You know this is really for you. You want Clay Price. It’s true. I can’t even pretend it’s just for the plumbing. I want Clay just as badly now as I ever did. I might not understand him, but that doesn’t mean I don’t hunger for him. I wonder if that makes me a bad daughter. I stare at my phone screen glumly. “Nat?” I look up—and do a double take. It’s Clay. He’s approaching from down the hall, a pack slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing a pair of bright blue swimming trunks that almost reach his knees, and an old T-shirt that’s got the sleeves (and most of the side) cut off to reveal tanned skin underneath. He’s wearing a baseball cap over his hair. And he’s shaved. His beard is gone. Completely, utterly gone. I can’t stop staring, because he looks so different. Gone is the rugged, hairy Clay from a few days ago, the man with the wild beard and wide grin. In its place is the boy I fell in love with seven years

ago, his face a little paler along the jaw where his beard was. It’s like looking at something out of the past, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. “You okay?” He pulls his cap off and adjusts it, and I can see he cut his hair, too. Instead of hanging long and unkempt, it’s cut short on the sides and slightly longer on top. He looks so different. “Your beard,” I say faintly, shocked. Clay comes up to me and I can see the strong lines of his jaw. My fingers itch to touch, but I don’t know what to think, or if that’ll even be welcomed. So I clench my hand at my side. He gives me a slow smile that looks so different —and yet so very similar—than when his beard covers his face. “Didn’t like how it tore up your skin when I was kissin’ ya. Made your face all red and scratchy.” He reaches out and cups my chin, rubbing his thumb along my jaw. “I didn’t like that it hurt ya.” “I didn’t mind it,” I protest, and then I blush, because I really, really didn’t mind it brushing up against certain spots of my anatomy. “Well, it can grow back. But we’ll see.” His green eyes search my face and he drops his hand. “Everything okay?” I recover quickly, nodding. “I was just calling to see how my dad was doing. He’s not having a great day, but the nurses say there’s not much to be done

about it.” I bite my lip. “I know they’re right, but I still worry.” “Do you need to cancel today?” He shifts his weight, stepping away from me, and I want to protest and pull him closer. For some reason, it’s important to me that he not step away from me. “No,” I say slowly, as if I’m still convincing myself. The nurses are right. I’ve been at my dad’s side on days like this, and he won’t recognize me. He won’t recognize anyone. Going out of my way to head there—and break my deal with Clay— won’t solve anything. If he’s got competent nurses at his side already, I’ll just be in the way. There’s nothing I can do. “No, I’m going to stay.” His smile breaks out then, big and genuine, and I smile back. “Good, because I wanna talk. We need to head out if we’re meetin’ my family, though.” I gesture at the room door. “My friend Lexi’s inside. I’ll get her.” “You don’t have to,” a voice announces on the other side of the door. “I can stay here. You crazy kids go have fun in the sun doing people-y things.” I roll my eyes. “She wants to go,” I reassure him. “No, she doesn’t,” Lexi calls out from the other side. “She’s just being a good friend.” “The best of friends,” I agree. “And she’s already got a swimsuit, so she’s going.” “Damn it,” I hear Lexi mutter.

Clay’s brows draw together, studying my face. He looks confused. I’m not surprised. Lexi’s a lot to take in the first time you meet her. “My friend is a little . . . theatrical,” I whisper. “And eccentric.” “She should fit right in, then,” Clay tells me. “My family’s got a whole lot of weird.” * * * It’s not a bad drive out to the Guadalupe River, though it’s definitely an awkward one. For one, there’s no limo today. It’s only Clay and his oversized pickup truck. He drives, I sit in the middle, and Lexi sits to my other side. There’s not a lot of privacy and Clay and I don’t get a chance to talk, so the conversation that we do have is awkward and mostly revolves around the weather or the river itself. At one point, Lexi “innocently” asks him what work he had that involved him leaving me behind for three days, and that shuts down the conversation pretty fast. It’s silent the rest of the way, until Clay parks his truck. “You ready?” “No,” Lexi says flatly. I nudge her. “Yes, we are. Get out of the damn car, Lexi.” I look over at Clay and smile. “She’s fun, I promise.”

“No, I’m not,” Lexi adds, but she gets out of the car. I can tell Lexi’s going to be a lot of fun today. I’m worried about bringing her, but she brightens at the sight of the group of people standing near a picnic table at the edge of the water. There’s several large inner tubes waiting, and a man and a heavily pregnant blonde woman stand near a grill, starting a fire. Seated atop the table are three other bearded men that look like Clay’s brothers. They’re all dressed in torn-up, trashed shirts, trucker caps, and swimsuits. One’s even wearing a camo swimsuit—the youngest-looking, whose blond beard looks a bit scruffier than the others. “You’re right, this is going to be fun,” she announces. “I’m glad you approve,” I mutter, but I get all distracted when Clay moves to my side and puts his arm around my waist, like I’m his girlfriend. Like I belong to him. Then again, I do belong to him, at least for a little while. Maybe I’m reading too much into things. We approach, and the moment we do, the three guys seated on the table start snickering into their cans of beer, their gazes focused on Clay. “Yuck it up,” Clay says, good-natured. “You look like you’re twelve,” one of his brothers comments, and the others howl with

laughter. They start elbowing each other and talking over one another loudly, teasing Clay about how white his jaw is compared to the rest of him. The man at the barbecue turns, and he gets a knowing look on his face as he glances over at me. “You must be Natalie,” he says, putting out a hand for me to shake. “I’m Boone, Clay’s older brother.” “Pleased to meet you,” I tell him. “This is my friend Lexi. I hope it’s all right that we showed up.” “I insisted,” says the blonde, coming up to Boone’s side and hanging off his arm. Her belly is enormous, and she’s wearing a long, filmy cover-up over her dark swimsuit, but neither manages to hide the fact that she’s heavily pregnant. “The more the merrier, right? I’m Ivy, Boone’s wife and Clay’s sister-in-law.” She beams at me, friendly and sweet. “We’ve heard so much about you already.” That sets the three men on the table to snickering again, and Ivy’s look grows furious. She shoots them an angry stare and they get quiet. “Let me introduce you to these hyenas,” Clay murmurs, unruffled by his brothers. He points at the youngest-looking brother, who also has the lightest hair. “This one’s Seth.” The next down the line is darker skinned than the others, a faint Hispanic cast to his features. He’s gorgeous, too, his beard thicker than night. “Gage.” He points further down the line, to the one I’ve seen before. “And you met Knox briefly.”

Seth eyes Lexi up and down. “This your friend? She looks weird.” “Thank you,” Lexi says immediately. She crosses her arms over her chest and glances around. “So this is society? Fascinating.” “This is my friend Lexi,” I announce. “She’s really very sweet once you get to know her.” “Take that back,” Lexi demands, and saunters ahead to the water’s edge. “I’ll be by the water, frightening children, if anyone needs me.” Ivy’s eyebrows go up in surprise. “Oh, she’s serious,” I point out. “But I promise she’s harmless. She’s mostly going to lurk and look menacing.” Knox gets up from the table, clearly intrigued, and heads after Lexi. “Well,” Ivy says, flustered. “My sister, Wynonna, and her friend are running late, and the food won’t be ready for at least another hour or so. You guys want to raft for a bit and head back about noon?” I start to offer to help out, when Clay takes my bag from my shoulder. “Sounds good. Me and Nat are gonna head down to the water.” Seth cracks open another pair of beers and offers one to Gage. “Is Wynonna’s friend hot?” “Come on,” Clay murmurs, gesturing at a distant building. “You can change in there.”

Clay I figured that after a few days of bein’ away from Natalie, I’d calm the fuck down and my dick would stop standing at permanent attention. Turns out, not so much. My mouth goes dry when Nat comes out of the bathroom, a towel knotted at her hips. The swimsuit she’s wearin’ is screamingly red, with a deep, deep vee that shows off her fantastic cleavage. I want to bury my face there all over again, and it takes everything I have not to grab her and throw her down on the ground so I can ravish her in front of everyone. Should be against the law to look that fuckin’ sexy. It gets worse when she drops her towel, revealing the high cut up the hip that shows a ton of leg, and she starts smoothin’ lotion all over her skin. I want to do that. My hands itch with the need to touch her, but I know if I do right now, I’m gonna end up making it all erotic. She probably just wants to swim. I can’t help but watch her as she pulls her hair up, tying it in a knot atop her head. When she lifts her arms, her breasts arch high, and— Fuck, I am a man in pain. My dick’s hard as ice and I’m going to be scarin’ children more’n Lexi is if I don’t do somethin’ about it. I grab the rafts and head down to the water’s edge and jump in. It’s only about waist deep here, and lots of people are

getting onto their rafts and preparing to go downstream. It’s crowded here by the little dock, but once you get into the water, you have more space to yourself. Which is good, because I don’t intend on anyone rafting with us. I wanna talk to my girl, alone. I need to explain myself. I raise a hand when my gorgeous Natalie appears at the water’s edge, scanning for me. She nods and says something to her friend Lexi, who’s standing in the bushes nearby, probably makin’ good on her promise to scare kids. Knox’s hanging out with her, clearly amused by her strangeness. Figures that those two would get along. Knox has a few screws loose himself. Nat eyes the water, then delicately gets in. “I’ve never rafted before,” she admits as she wades up to me. “How does this work?” “Just like you think it does,” I tell her, holding one raft toward her. “I’ll hold on to you so we don’t drift apart.” “All right,” she says, and her cheeks get red. Huh. Yeah, I guess that could be a double entendre. I kinda like the thought of holding on to her so we stick together. And then I wonder what part of her she’s thinkin’ of me holdin’ and my dick gets all hard as a rock again. I help her into her float, and then slide into mine. There’s a rope that runs along the edge of

each raft, and I grab hers with my hand, hauling her raft against mine. “What now?” she asks, glancing over at the shore. “Now we drift,” I tell her. “And we talk.” “Oh.” She doesn’t sound thrilled. The ultrapolite look returns to her face and she seems determined to gaze everywhere but at me. Jesus, she acts like talkin’ to me sounds like the worst idea ever. Am I that bad? Maybe I am. That’s fuckin’ depressing. Still, I ain’t gonna give up. Natalie’s here with me right now, and that’s a start. Like Knox said, I got her here, now I need to romance her right. I wait as we drift away from the shore and the clusters of other tubers. When it’s just her and me on the water, I tug on the rope and spin her raft until she’s facing me. “You gonna ignore me? Do I need to tickle your foot?” A small smile curves her mouth. “Is that a threat? I can tickle yours. I seem to remember you being far more ticklish than me.” I wag one foot at her, the one that’s missin’ two toes. “There’s less of it than you remember.” Natalie gasps and sits up in her raft, rockin’ both of us. “Oh my god! Clay! What happened?” “Just a riggin’ accident back when I was younger.” I shrug. “Piece of machinery slipped and my foot was under it. Lost part of my boot and part

of my foot, but it coulda been worse. I know guys that have died on the rig.” I grow quiet, thinking of Eddie. “It’s a good job, but it’s a hard job.” It ain’t safe, either. “Do you still do it? Rigging?” She has a worried look on her face that makes me feel good. She concerned about me? That’s a nice feelin’. “Me? Naw. Not since we hit the big money. Now we just sit in meetin’s and tell other people what to do.” I grin. “And we work on our side projects, like me with my camo.” Natalie looks thoughtful. “It’s strange to think about how much has changed since we knew each other before, isn’t it?” Some stuff has changed, she’s right about that. But more ’n’ more, I think that a lot has stayed the same. Like how I feel about her. And I need to tell her. I ain’t letting Natalie Weston slip between my fingers again. “Didn’t bring you out here to show off my ugly toes,” I tell her. “They’re not ugly,” she says staunchly. “They tell a story.” “An ugly story,” I tease back, but she looks unhappy at the thought. It’s like she really cares about me, and that makes my chest get all funny and squeezed up at the thought. “Anyhow. I brought you out here because I wanted to tell you I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” She looks over at me. I nod. “For makin’ you cry.” Her brows go down and she looks annoyed. “But you’re not sorry you abandoned me immediately after we had sex and then disappeared for three days without a word?” “Well, no, I guess I’m sorry about that, too.” Shit, I’m fuckin’ this all up. “I kinda thought you didn’t wanna see me for a while, Nat.” “Why would you think that?” “Because the moment I got up from the bed you started cryin’? Not exactly what a guy pictures when he finally sleeps with the girl of his dreams.” Her expression grows soft and she finally meets my gaze. “And am I the girl of your dreams?” “Always have been,” I tell her, my voice husky with emotion. “That ain’t never changed.” I slide my hand to her ankle, holding on to her instead of the rope edging her raft. Her skin is soft and warm, and I rub my thumb against it. “Haven’t you guessed that by now?” She shakes her head. “Sometimes it’s so hard to tell. One minute I think you’re the old Clay, and the next, you act like you hate me. I don’t know what to think.” “I’ve been tryin’ to be someone else. Thought I’d pay you to be my girl and get you out of my head. Get what I wanted and move on. Except the

more I’m around you, the less I want to move on. I just kind of want to stay right here. With you.” She licks her lips. Her foot wiggles ever so slightly, and then she nudges my arm with her toe. “So that’s what the big deal was? That you were going to pay me to have sex with you and get me out of your head?” At my nod, she sighs. “You know there are probably plenty of women out there that’d have sex with you for free, right? No strings attached? Just be in a relationship with them?” “Didn’t want anyone else. I wanted you.” “Because I wouldn’t have sex with you back when we were teenagers?” “Maybe partly. Mostly because it was you.” I continue rubbing my thumb up and down on her smooth skin. “You’ve kinda always been the perfect woman in my eyes. You’re sexy, pretty, sweet, kind, classy, and you’ve got a good sense of humor. I expected to come back and find you with a husband and three or four kids.” “Me?” She shakes her head. “No. It never seemed right. Plus, I was too busy taking care of my dad. He had a stroke the night you broke up with me.” “I broke up with you?” I snort. “More like you decided I wasn’t good enough for you.” Natalie looks confused, and she shifts in her raft, pulling her leg out of my grip. I grab the rope on her raft before she can drift away. It turns us to

where we’re facin’ each other once more, her feet near my hand and my feet near her hand. “What are you talking about?” she asks. “You told my dad you didn’t want me to go away to college.” “I never said that. Ever. I said I wanted us to get married. That I loved you and I wanted to make it work. Your dad showed up that night we were all supposed to have dinner and told me that you were runnin’ off to Stanford and you didn’t have the guts to tell me on your own, so he was gonna break up with me for you.” She gasps. “You’re serious?” “Why would I fuckin’ lie?” I growl. “It’s been burned into my brain for the last seven years. I didn’t think it was true, so I went to your house that night and then you mocked me and said you wouldn’t marry something like me. I thought you were someone else until that night. Then I realized I didn’t know you at all.” Hell, I’m gettin’ angry just thinking back on it, and the hurt and betrayal it brought. “Doesn’t matter that it was seven years ago,” I tell her. “I ain’t never forgot about it, and I ain’t never forgot about you.” She’s gone pale, her eyes glossy in that way that tells me she’s fightin’ back tears. Aw, hell. I didn’t wanna make her cry. “You dumbass,” she says after a long moment. “You really think I would send my

dad over to you to break up with you? Without talking to you first?” “It didn’t sound like you,” I say defensively. “But how was I supposed to know? I went to your house to talk with you about it and you were ugly to me—” “That’s because my dad went to me and said he went to talk to you about me possibly going to college and you said you didn’t want me to! That you wanted me to stay in your trailer and be your little wife.” “What?” I give her a crazy look. “That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard. If you wanted to go to college, I’d have worked two jobs so you could pay for your tuition and not have to worry about workin’. I wanted what you wanted, Nat.” “Well, I wanted to be with you.” She buries her face in her hands. “God, we are such idiots. We let my dad play us. I hate that he’s an actor. He’s far too good at lying.” “So you didn’t say that shit?” “None of it,” she says with a horrified little shake of her head. “I got home and he gave me an acceptance letter to Stanford. I never even applied! I should have known that he was up to something, but he just launched into how you wanted to hold me back from my dreams, and I never even questioned where it came from. I just got hurt and

lashed out.” She groans. “God, we were so stupid. Dad totally played us both.” I don’t know how to feel about this. Part of me’s frustrated—seven years have been lost to a stupid argument that could have been prevented if we’d both not been so very hotheaded. Part of me is relieved—Nat never thought I was trash. We stare at each other for a long moment. “Seven years,” I say slowly. “Wasted.” She inhales a deep breath and closes her eyes, then shakes her head. “I don’t know if it was wasted. It sucks and I could shake my father for putting us through that—” “I could do a lot more than just shake him,” I tell her drily. Like put my fist through his face. “—But,” she continues. “I can’t even say that if you’d have asked me to go with you that I’d have been able to go. My dad had a stroke that night. His sixth wife, Johanna, left him right after that and there was no one but me to take care of him. His money was gone, and it was like everything crashed overnight. I don’t think I could have left his side, even if we were good.” I don’t like hearing that. “So you still would have chosen him over me.” “There’s no choosing,” she says, exasperated. “I’m all he’s got. I wouldn’t abandon him when he was sick and hurting, just like I wouldn’t have abandoned you if you were in the same situation.

And now he’s . . .” She looks away and wipes at her eyes. “He doesn’t remember where he is most days. His mind is going. He’s eighty-seven and in bad health, and I feel guilty for being away from him even now, even though it’s necessary . . .” Her voice trails off and she gives a little shake of her head. And I feel a little guilty, too. Because I’m the one forcing her to hang out with me when her dad’s ailing. Doesn’t matter that I hate the bastard and that he’s always treated Nat like another one of his servants. She loves him. She’s always wanted his approval, even when he didn’t want to give it. But it galls me that she’d consider taking care of him over bein’ with me. That it’s even a choice. For me, there’s no choice. Nat’s the one I’d pick over anyone and everyone. But I don’t want to make her miserable. “You want to go home?” “No,” she says, and there’s a tremulous little laugh in her throat. She wipes at her eyes again. “I really don’t. But I feel guilty because I like being with you. At least, I do when you’re nice to me. Sometimes you’re not and then I want to punch you in the face.” I chuckle, relaxing a bit. I reach for her ankle again, desperate to touch her. When I do, she rubs her foot against my arm and my dick gets hard at that small caress. “I have to admit I have been an asshole upon occasion—”

“Upon occasion?!” “—But I was doin’ it because I didn’t want you breakin’ my heart again.” She goes quiet, her smile fading a little. “And now?” she asks. “Now I think it’s too late for that, because I never stopped caring about you. Ever.” Nat bites her lip and reaches for the rope on my raft, twining her fingers against it. Her gaze moves to my foot, the one with the two missin’ toes. “I don’t know, Clay. You really, really hurt me when you left the other day. And when you threw in my face that you bought me. It doesn’t mesh with the Clay I thought I knew back then. The Clay I fell in love with.” “It’s the same person.” “I think that, and then sometimes, I think too much time has passed.” She reaches over and touches one of my remaining toes, as if to remind me that we’re not the same as we used to be. “Maybe too much has changed in the last seven years. I mean, look at me.” She gestures at her body. “There’s a lot different.” “Or maybe nothin’s changed and you need to let me prove it to you,” I tell her fervently. “Just give me a chance.” “I have to, don’t I? You’ve contracted me to your side.” Nat arches a dark eyebrow at me.

“I ain’t sorry about that,” I tell her. “It got me you back in my life, and if you want me to pretend like I’m a nice guy and let you go back home, it’s not happening. I want you here by my side. I want you in my bed. I want you in my life, Nat. And if I have to be a rich-guy asshole to drag you away from your father’s house, then that’s what I’m gonna do.” A tiny smile curves her mouth. “Was all of this just to get me?” “Everything’s for you,” I tell her soberly. “Haven’t you guessed that by now?” Her eyes shimmer with tears again. “I’m scared, Clay. What if we’re not the same people? What if too much is different?” “Then we learn about the new stuff together,” I tell her staunchly. I don’t care if she’s different. I wanted Natalie then, and I want her now. In my eyes, nothing’s changed. Nothing ever will. She’s mine and always will be.

Chapter Twelve

Natalie Today might be the most fun I’ve had in . . . forever. I know that Clay’s manipulated me into being at his side today. I know I should be angry over that, just like I should be angry over the fact that he abandoned me for three days, minutes after we had sex. That should be unforgivable. Just like I should be furious that my dad lied to both me and Clay, forcing us apart seven years ago. Strangely, though, I’m not mad anymore. I’m not mad at any of it. I just want to move on and be happy. My dad’s a shell of who he used to be. And Clay? Clay’s apologized and wants to try again. He wants to show me that he can be the person he promises to be. So I’m going to stop living in the past and harping over past hurts. I’m going to accept things as they are, and look forward to the future. It’s strangely freeing.

For the first time, it feels like I have a future again. Not only is Clay paying off our debts and giving me room to breathe, but I might actually have a future with someone. Strange how I never realized how lonely I was until just now. I’ve always been a bit of a lonely person, and I don’t make a lot of friends. I’ve been fine with that—but being around Clay makes me want something more. I enjoy the day. Gosh, do I enjoy the day. After I have the big “talk” with Clay, it feels like all the tension between us has evaporated. I’m able to relax and have fun tubing. Clay and I go down the river for about an hour, then get out at the designated spot and take a shuttle back to the picnic area. There, Ivy and Boone are busy serving up hamburgers and hot dogs. More beer is passed around, along with bottles of water. Ivy’s too pregnant to go tubing, so there’s a constant crew at the picnic spot, and people swap out to go tubing in pairs or groups. Clay’s brothers are funny and rowdy, always clowning around and teasing each other. They give him shit for shaving his face, and then when Knox steals someone’s towel, the brothers pile onto him in their teasing. It seems that Knox likes to steal things just to see if people notice. Ivy chats with me for a while, telling me about how she and Boone met, and about the baby she’s carrying, and she’s incredibly sweet and

friendly. I like her a lot. Actually, I like everyone that I meet today. Lexi spends most of the day harassing Clay’s brothers, who harass her back as if she’s the weird friend they never had. She even shows Ivy how to do a few yoga pregnancy poses, and Seth and Knox also attempt to do the poses, much to everyone’s amusement. I pick at the food back and forth, drink a few beers, and Clay drags me off to go tubing regularly, I think so we can get away from the others. He holds my hand or keeps a possessive arm around my waist at all times, and it really does feel like I’m his girlfriend and not just his “paid assistant.” And we kiss. A lot. Oh gosh, do we kiss. As night falls, no one seems in a hurry to leave. We take one last twilight ride down the river, and then return our tubes. Boone sets up a bonfire, and then everyone hangs around it, talking and laughing. Lexi plops down next to me with a bar of chocolate and marshmallows, and we set to making s’mores. The younger Prices keep trying to steal Lexi’s s’mores the moment she makes them, but I offer mine to Clay, mostly because I like watching him lick his fingers. If that’s wrong, I don’t want to be right. Eventually, though, I start to yawn, and when Clay puts his arm around my waist I lean in and rest my head on his shoulder.

“We should probably head out soon,” Clay murmurs, his hand going to my knee. His skin feels deliciously cool against mine. “You look like you’re about to fall over.” I start to protest, but what comes out is a yawn. “Yeah,” Clay drawls. “That’s our cue. Come on.” He pats my butt. “Time to go.” “Excuse me,” Lexi says, and puts on a weird British accent. “Have you been drinking, good sir? I can’t allow you to drive us home if you’ve partaken of the spirits.” “What did she just say?” Seth murmurs. “No drinking,” Clay promises. “I left that to Nat. I’m the designated driver, and now I’m going to take my girl back to our room.” “Oh goody, can I come along?” Lexi deadpans. “I don’t feel like a third wheel at all.” And then I feel a little stab of guilt, because I do worry that Lexi has felt like an extra all day and I didn’t notice. “I’ll take Lexi home,” Knox says, getting out his phone. “I’m calling my driver right now.” I hesitate, but Lexi gives me a sly wink that tells me she’s fine with Knox giving her a ride. Ooookay, then. “If you’re sure,” I say, waiting for someone to speak up. No one does. Lexi points at Knox’s phone, reading over his shoulder. “Tell him he needs to bring us Happy Meals.”

Knox nods and starts typing. “Yeah, she’s fine. Come on,” Clay murmurs. “I’ll call you later,” Lexi yells out as we leave. I feel a little guilty, but I can’t make her come, and I know she’s sober. She’s not a drinker. Maybe she’s interested in Knox? I make a mental note to grill her tomorrow via text. Clay holds my hand and carries my bag as we head back to his truck, and he opens the door for me so I can slide in. The moment I do, his eyes widen. “What is it?” I ask, worried about that look on his face. “Did you use sunblock?” “I did earlier.” Now that he mentions it, though, I do feel warm. Really warm. I flip down the visor and peer at my reflection. I’m tomato red. Oh god. My face is bright pink from chin to hairline, and I’m pretty sure my scalp is even sunburned. How is that possible? I lift my suit strap, and the line of pale skin that was covered looks bright enough to be a stripe on the flag. Oh boy. This is going to hurt tomorrow. “It must not have worked very well,” I say feebly, pressing my fingertips to my skin. “Guess that’s what I get for grabbing the first one I saw at the drugstore.” “We’ll get you fixed up, baby,” Clay promises.

I guess at some point I started being okay with him calling me baby again. He begins driving and at some point I guess I nod off. I wake up and see we’re stopping at a pharmacy. “Wait here,” he tells me. Clay returns a few minutes later with a bag and puts it on the floorboard, then tucks me against his side. “Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you up when we get home.” I nod and snuggle against his shoulder. “Didn’t realize I was this tired,” I tell him, yawning. “It’s okay,” he says with a chuckle. “I got you.” “It’s a long drive back to the hotel,” I tell him, rubbing my face against his warm, delicious arm. “Let me know if you want me to drive for a bit.” “We’re good,” he promises me. “You sleep.” I do. I doze off and when I wake up, the truck has stopped and Clay’s opening my door. “Come on, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and hefts me into his arms. That wakes me up. “Clay,” I protest. “You can’t carry me. I can walk!” “I’ve got you,” he tells me. “Just put your arms around my neck.” Since I have no other choice, I do, and I’m surprised to see we’re not at the hotel. We’re in front of . . . a trailer, of all things. Oh. “Is this where you live?” “Yeah, it’s a lot closer than the hotel. It’s not much to look at, though. Sorry about that. I never

bring anyone over.” He goes up the steps and pushes the door open, then flips on the light. Inside, it’s surprisingly clean and neat, with an old, beat-up sofa, a large flat-screen TV mounted to the wall, and blankets tossed over a nearby chair. Even his kitchen is tidy. The place is small and looks a little worn, but it’s charming to see Clay’s personality in the sparse furnishings. There’s a Houston Texans jersey on the wall, and a framed family photograph across from it. He sets me down and then lightly presses a kiss on my nose. “You need to take a cold shower to cool your skin off.” “I feel fine,” I protest. “I’d rather look around.” “You’re fine, huh?” “Absolutely.” He pokes my shoulder with a finger. “Ow.” I swipe his hand away. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Go get in the shower or I’m gonna spank you.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me. “Unless you’d like that.” “Maybe I would and maybe I wouldn’t,” I say loftily. “Is it in our contract?” He only snorts. “Just get your sassy butt in the shower. A cold shower,” he points out. “And then you’re gonna come out here and drink some water, because I want you to stay hydrated.” “Nag, nag, nag,” I tease, and then ruin it by yawning. “Are we sleeping in your bed tonight?”

“Yup, we are. We’ll go back to the hotel in the morning.” He moves past me farther into the trailer, and opens a door. Inside are neatly stacked linens, and he pulls a towel out and hands it to me. “I’m going, I’m going,” I mutter. I take the towel from him and head for the door he’s pointing at. The bathroom’s neat as a pin—neater than I expected, given Clay’s rough and tumble exterior— and the body wash in the shower caddy smells like he does. I sniff it for a long, heavenly moment before undressing and then turning the shower on. The cold water hits me like a log. I bite back the yelp that threatens and cling to the tile, shocked at how freezing cold it is. It takes a moment for me to fiddle with the knobs and figure out how to change the water to slightly warmer, and I end up shivering under the spray for as long as I can bear it. A quick look in the mirror when I get out tells me that I’m going to be feeling this in the morning. Really, really feeling this. My skin is a deep, angry red, and pale white where my swimsuit covered it. Ugh. In addition to painful, it looks completely unsexy as well. “Come on out,” Clay calls to me. I wrap the towel around my body and follow his voice. The sunburn’s starting to hit me now, and I feel exhausted and achy. Clay’s waiting in his bedroom—a tiny, neat room with a nightstand full of hunting and business magazines, and a full-size

bed that’s had the blankets stripped off of it, revealing a cool white sheet. “Lie down,” Clay tells me, and pats the bed. “I’ll rub aloe vera on your burns.” “I should be waiting on you,” I tell him miserably. “Pretty sure the reversal isn’t part of the deal.” “Fuck the deal,” he says. “Get in this bed already, baby.” Well, okay, him demanding I get into bed does sound a bit like our deal. I do, and I carefully lie down on my belly, exposing my back to him. My movements cause the towel to shift and I whimper when it brushes against my reddened skin. “You’re killin’ me, Nat,” Clay says in a frustrated voice. “Hate seein’ you in pain.” “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t like being in pain.” He chuckles and pulls the towel down my back. “No, that don’t help much.” I grab the towel from his hand and hike it back up before he can expose my butt. “You can just do my shoulders.” “Like I ain’t seen every inch of you already,” he teases, pulling the towel back down. “Quit bein’ so shy.” “It’s one thing to be sexy naked,” I grump. “Another to be ailing naked. Ailing naked isn’t a good naked.”

“Any time you’re naked, I think it’s a good naked.” I hear the cap flip, and in the next moment, something screamingly cold splatters on my back. At my yelp of protest, Clay laughs again. “Sorry. Guess it’s cold.” “You’re a terrible nursemaid.” His hand smooths onto my back a moment later, spreading that cold, soothing lotion around, and I groan at how good it suddenly feels. “I’m not used to takin’ care of no one,” Clay admits. “So I might not be the sweetest nurse, but I’ll be the most enthusiastic.” “Enthusiasm’s good.” I close my eyes and rest my head on my folded hands, relaxing as he rubs the aloe onto my burn. “I really appreciate this.” “I don’t mind in the slightest. Lets me touch you for a bit longer, and I’m greedy that way.” I smile to myself. “You touched me all day long.” “Doesn’t mean I’m tired of it.” He puts another dollop of aloe on my back and begins to rub it in as well. “Your dad . . . you said he’s really sick, huh? You take care of him?” “I do,” I say softly. It feels strange to be talking about my dad to Clay, especially after the realization that Dad did so much to keep us apart from each other. “It’s hard to be angry with him, because I know what’s happened to him. After his stroke, he hasn’t been the same. It took him months

and months to recover, and by the time he could get around again, Johanna had filed for divorce and his accountants had let me know that he didn’t have any money left. I thought it couldn’t get any worse . . . and then he started mistaking me for my mother, who died when I was five.” His hands gently caress my shoulders. “Ouch. That had to have been painful.” I nod. “At first I thought it was just a spell. That maybe he was struggling a little after the stroke. But then it kept happening more and more. He’d wake up and think he was late for a movie. Or he’d sometimes have no idea where he was at all, and just scream and scream at me like I was torturing him. And sometimes when he’s having a bad spell, he remembers Mom’s death and he just cries and cries. Those are the worst days.” I swallow hard. “He should probably be in a home, but I can’t afford any but the barest-bones ones, and I don’t want the world knowing that Chap Weston is being tossed into a cheap home by his mean daughter.” “So you started runnin’ a museum for him instead?” “It seemed like the only thing to do. When he was still coherent, I suggested selling some of his memorabilia from the movies. He’s got tons of it, you know. Says he used to hit up all the studio lot auctions with Debbie Reynolds. Didn’t want to sell any of it, either. He refused, and it’s his stuff so I

can’t go around him. And doing that would be cruel, anyhow. So I tried for a while to sell autographs and signed pictures on eBay and things. It didn’t make much money, but then we had a fan show up out of the blue one day and she wanted pictures of Dad, and he was just so delighted to show her around and give a tour of his collection. And that’s kind of how the museum started.” “Mmm.” His hands slide down my back in the most delicious way. “You never did make it to Stanford, did you.” “Never even left town,” I admit. “Dad was one medical emergency after another, and by the time he stabilized, the money was gone and so was everyone else. We went from constantly having maids, assistants, and valets to having no one. I was all Dad had. So . . . I stayed and tried to make things work.” “You’re the most loyal person I’ve ever met, Nat.” His voice is husky. For some reason, hearing that from him makes me feel like crying. “Loyal to everyone but the one person that mattered the most, it seems.” “We were both stupid kids,” he says, and his hands slide down to my ass and begin to knead it. It’s not exactly sunburned, but I can’t find it in me to protest. It feels too good. “Maybe we needed a few years apart to smarten up. Let the world deal us a few licks before we could get back together.”

“Maybe.” “Still doesn’t mean I don’t want to punch your dad in the face.” “I doubt he’d remember who you are,” I say with a little sigh. “And I don’t even know that he realizes what he did. Dad’s always been . . .” “Selfish?” Clay volunteers. It seems like the wrong word for it. “It’s hard to explain. People in Hollywood are different than you and me. He had people surrounding him for sixty years telling him how amazing he was. I think stuff like that eventually goes to your head. Plus, he was paid to pretend to be other people on screen. Off screen, I don’t think he knew how to turn it off. My dad just puts on a show, no matter who he’s around. I think that’s why he’s been divorced so many times. You peel back all the acting layers, and there’s not much left underneath.” “Kinda sad if you ask me.” And that’s the right word for it. Sad. Sad that my dad’s ailing and he’s got no one left but a tooyoung daughter. Sad that he’s had such heights of fame and he’s going to spend his last days forgotten and alone. Sad that he’s never really built real bonds with anyone . . . even me. Sad that I care and still wish he was the dad I always wanted as a little girl. “Yeah. Sad.” Clay’s hands stroke my butt again, and then his fingers slide down the insides of my thighs. It sends

hot little prickles through my body. “Um . . .” “You ain’t sunburned here, but I can’t resist,” he murmurs. “Wanna put my mouth all over this skin of yours so badly but you’re sunburned. Don’t wanna hurt you.” “And you probably don’t want a mouthful of aloe,” I tease, though I’m getting all breathless and turned on. “Let’s not talk about my dad anymore, okay? It ruins the mood.” “I completely agree. Why don’t you turn over and I can rub your front for you?” I roll onto my back and put my hands over my breasts, feeling shy. My burned skin feels as if it scrapes against the sheets and I wince. “Maybe I should stay on my stomach. I think my back’s twice as bad as the front.” “Yeah, but the view is amazing like this,” Clay tells me, grinning wickedly down at me. For a moment, he looks so much like the boy I fell in love with seven years ago that I lose my breath. With his beard gone, he does look a little younger—but he’s still Clay. Still ruggedly handsome, still chiseled and tanned and delicious. His smile fades and he groans. “The way you look at me, Nat—” “Sorry,” I say meekly. “Don’t you fuckin’ apologize. Love the way you devour me with your eyes.” His gaze is heated, and he grabs one of my hands, prying it off my breast.

“Don’t want you hidin’ these from me, either. They’re mine. All of you belongs to me.” “Because you bought me?” I tease. The look in his eyes is serious. Hungry. Possessive. “No. Because you’ve always been mine and always will be.” I shiver at those words. God, I feel so needy around him. So hungry for more. “I’m sorry I had to go and get sunburned,” I say softly. “I guess I ruined any hopes for sex tonight. And here I keep hearing how amazing reunion sex is.” “Mmm. Way I look at it, nothin’s been ruined if you ask me.” He leans in and presses a kiss to my gently rounded stomach and then licks at my skin. I’m pale there, and un-burnt. And then he kisses lower. And lower, making a beeline for my mound. “Clay,” I protest softly. It doesn’t seem right that he’s paying me to be his toy and he’s the one giving all the pleasure tonight. Because it’s clear what he wants to do, and I don’t know that I want to stop him. Lord have mercy, the last thing I want is to stop him. “You shush. This is for me as much as it is for you,” he murmurs, and then pushes my thighs apart. Somehow I doubt that. But if he wants to believe it, I’ll let him. He makes a sound of pure pleasure as his mouth descends on my pussy. “Been thinkin’ about this for

days.” His hand grips my thigh and he gives me a long, loving taste, then swirls his tongue around my clit. I cry out at the sensation, my body jerking in response. “Thought I was kidding myself with how good this pussy tastes,” Clay tells me. “Thought my imagination was goin’ wild and I was makin’ it out to be better than it was. But now that I can lick you again? I wasn’t wrong. You’re my new favorite flavor, baby.” I moan, shivering. I don’t know what’s better— his filthy words or his mouth as he kisses me in my most secretive of places. All I know is that I don’t want him to stop. Ever. Clay licks me with long, slow strokes of his tongue, dragging back and forth over my clit in a way that feels a bit like torture and a bit like bliss. It makes me squirm with need, and the more I wriggle on the bed, the tighter he grips my hips so I can’t get away. “Clay,” I pant. “Oh god, please stop. You’re killing me.” “You really want me to stop?” he asks, and then slides his tongue along the hood of my clit. “Or you want me to give you a little more?” One finger plays at the entrance to my core, circling my sensitive flesh there. Damn it. “More,” I grit out. God, I want so much more. I want to come. I want him to fuck me

with his fingers. I want everything. “If you stop right now, I think I might scream.” “Well, now, I like the thought of you screamin’,” he drawls, and presses another light kiss to my folds. His finger dips inside of me, and then he begins to stroke it gently, in and out. “I like it when you lose control, Natalie. You’re always so proper and reserved. Makes me want to turn you into a wildcat.” He adds a second finger, and I feel full and yet still so hollow inside. I want more. Now that I’ve had him inside me, I know what I’m missing. A low moan rises in my throat at the delicious torture. “That’s better,” Clay whispers, then flicks his tongue against my clit. “Tell me how much you like my mouth on you, Nat.” I’m beyond coherent thought at this point. All I know is that every time I cry out his name, his tongue moves. Every time I moan, his fingers pump into me. I know he’s silently encouraging me to be noisy, but I don’t even care. I’m a begging mess as he ruthlessly tongues me, thrusting with his hand. The pleasure escalates, and so does my volume. By the time my orgasm hits, I’m pretty sure people from three counties around have heard me screaming Clay’s name. But man, it was worth it. As I fall back on the blankets, panting, I stare up at the ceiling, dazed as

the pleasure washes over me. Just when I thought it couldn’t get better than last time, Clay proves me wrong. He presses a kiss to my thigh and then moves onto the bed next to me. With his head propped up by one hand, he gazes down at me as I pant and try to catch my breath. I feel boneless and weak with relief, but I also feel so, so sexy right now. When he reaches out and brushes a sweaty lock of hair off my forehead, the feel of his cool hand against my skin reminds me that parts of me are bright red. “This is probably not my most seductive moment,” I tell him, smiling. “You’d be wrong,” he tells me, and leans down to give me a light kiss on the mouth. I notice that there’s a slight musky taste to his mouth, and blush to realize that it’s me that I’m tasting. As his body presses against mine, I can feel his cock against my hip. He’s still hard, the tip of his cock wet with precum. Of course he’s hard. He hasn’t come. It was just me that got pleasured. That seems somehow wrong. I lean into the kiss when he lowers his mouth again, and slide my hand to his cock, curling my fingers around his length. His mouth breaks from mine in a gasp. His eyes close and he presses his forehead to mine. I don’t even mind the twinge it sends through my sunburn

—I’m just fascinated by his response. “Nat,” he breathes. “You don’t have to—” “Shut up,” I whisper. “I know I don’t have to.” Like this big idiot thinks I could possibly not want to touch him? He’s gorgeous. And ever since I saw him naked, I’ve wanted to touch him. I want to give him pleasure like he gives me pleasure. I want him to need me as much as I need him. I let my fingers play up and down his length, exploring him. I trace my fingers over every vein, every crease, fascinated by how very soft and warm his skin is here, and how hard he is underneath it. The soft hairs surrounding his cock are springy and dark, and I brush over them before cupping his sac. “What feels best?” I ask, curious. “All of it,” he tells me. “All of it feels good. Don’t care what you do as long as you put your hand on me.” Well, that I can definitely do. I stroke my fingertips over the head of his cock, playing with the fluid beaded there and slicking it over his skin. I want to give him a hand job, I think, but I’m not sure how to grip him properly. I lean in, pressing my mouth toward his, and when he kisses me, it’s with all the intense urgency I’ve come to think of as Clay, and it makes me feel all stirred up all over again. My grip on his cock tightens, and I give him an experimental little pump of my hand. When he says nothing, I do it again.

His kiss becomes more urgent, tongue slicking against mine. “Am I doing it wrong?” I ask. “How can I make it better?” Clay’s hand grips mine, and he tightens my fingers around his cock, until it feels like I’m making a fist. “Be rougher,” he tells me, words fluttering against my lips. His tongue slicks against my mouth, and he licks me even as he uses my hand to stroke himself. He groans low, then bites gently at my lower lip. Oh wow. It’s turning me on, too. I kiss him again, more urgent, and pump his cock once more. Clay keeps his hand over mine, using me to stroke, slow and hard. Then, he pulls my hand up his shaft until I’m gripping him right at the base of the head. “Small, tight squeezes here,” he tells me between fluttering kisses. His eyes are hooded with need, and his other hand brushes against my breasts, as if he’s desperate to intensify things. I know what that’s like. I do as he asks, using small, tight little jerks that brush against the crown of his cock head, and as I do I arch my back, thrusting my breasts against him so my nipples drag against his skin. His breath explodes, and he grips one of my breasts tightly, teasing my nipple between two fingers. His other hand closes over mine on his

cock, and then he’s guiding me—forcing me—to jerk him harder and faster. I’ve never been so turned on. I gasp when he gives my nipple a pinch, and his mouth claims mine again, then falls open, as if he can’t concentrate on kissing me. Not when there’s so much else going on. Excited, I pant, rubbing up against him and trying to help out as he uses me to rub his shaft. His breath explodes, and something hot and sticky covers my hand. To my surprise, he keeps going, continuing to drag his hand—and mine—up and down his cock for several long moments, milking the orgasm. His eyes are squeezed tightly shut, and he presses his forehead to mine again. I wait, breathing hard, for him to come back to himself. That wasn’t even my orgasm, and it was one of the best ones I’ve ever had. Clay releases a deep breath. “We should clean up.” “Back into the shower?” I volunteer. “We can probably squeeze both of us in there.” It was small but I figure we can manage with a bit of rubbing against each other. He grins at me and presses another fierce, quick kiss to my mouth. “Great minds and all that.” I smile at him. It’s weird, but I feel . . . happy. I don’t even care that I’m fried like a lobster, or that this all might come crashing down on my head in the next day. I don’t care that we lost seven years

together or that Clay lives in a trailer and my dad hates him. I’m happy. I doubt it’ll last—it never lasts—but for now, I’m going to bask in the happiness and enjoy myself. If nothing else, it’ll give me a good memory to tuck away when life turns to crap again.

Chapter Thirteen One Week Later

Natalie LEXI: So I went past the house and the renovations look like they’re almost done. LEXI: And there’s a big billboard announcing a grand opening. It’s right off the highway. Premium real estate! LEXI: How many blow jobs did it cost you? Asking for a friend. NATALIE: Good morning, Lexi. :) LEXI: Ooh, a smiley face. Someone’s happy. NATALIE: Someone is! LEXI: Spare me the revolting details of your sordid relationship. NATALIE: You just asked me about blow jobs. LEXI: I was trying to make polite conversation.

NATALIE: With blow jobs?! LEXI: Well, I thought it might be too much to bring up a rusty trombone before breakfast. NATALIE: I’m . . . not even going to ask. NATALIE: How’s the business? LEXI: I’m not saying it’s bad . . . LEXI: But I am saying if you know of someone that would like yoga lessons, I have a pretty open schedule. NATALIE: Maybe you should try being a little more friendly? I’m pretty sure you’ve scared away most of the locals. LEXI: You flatterer! LEXI: For real, though, I do have a potential client-slash-investor coming over later today to get a tour of the studio. NATALIE: Yay!!! LEXI: So catch me up. How are things with Clay? NATALIE: Dreamy. :) Is it possible to have a perfect week? I feel like I’ve had one. LEXI: Ew gross. So many emotions. NATALIE: I can’t help it. We’re disgustingly sappy together. LEXI: So what did you do during this sappy week? NATALIE: Well, we’ve been staying in the hotel. One day we did some touristy stuff

downtown and we did some shopping. And just regular dating stuff. It’s been nice. LEXI: Have you seen any ghosts? NATALIE: No? LEXI: You should tell him you want to ghost hunt. NATALIE: Except I don’t? I’d rather go to dinner and a movie with him. LEXI: You’re such a pleb. I’m surprised you’re not with him right now. LEXI: Or . . . are you? NATALIE: No, he’s got a day full of meetings today. Some of them are PBO and some are IC. LEXI: PBO? IC? NATALIE: PBO = Price Brothers Oil. Board meetings. NATALIE: IC = IntelligentCamo. The start-up he’s trying to get going. He wants it to be affordable for military types and hunters. He’s got a whole plan mapped out. It’s really interesting! LEXI: Yaaaawn. NATALIE: Okay okay. I know I’m gushing. LEXI: Has he apologized for abandoning you those three days? NATALIE: I . . . told you yesterday? He apologized already.

LEXI: Yes but I think he should apologize daily. Grovel daily, even! LEXI: This might be why I’m single, though. NATALIE: Speaking of, any word from Knox? LEXI: Who? NATALIE: Uh, Knox? One of Clay’s brothers? You two seemed like you hit it off last week at the tubing party. LEXI: Eh. NATALIE: Oh. Guess not. He not your type? LEXI: You could say that. NATALIE: What . . . is your type? LEXI: Byronically ironic? LEXI: Ironically byronic? NATALIE: I wish you’d be serious for once! LEXI: Never! NATALIE: Well, I wish you’d hit it off with Knox. It’d be fun to double-date or something. Clay and I had dinner with Ivy and Boone the other night. I really like them both! Ivy’s so sweet. She wants Clay to look for a house and she wants my input on it. And Boone’s really nice too—very protective of his wife.

LEXI: Did you not meet Boone before? Back when you and Clay were dating? NATALIE: No, he was working at the rig with his dad at that point. LEXI: Mmhmm. So tell me more about the house shopping. LEXI: Ooh ooh! Wait! Tell them Clay wants to live in a yurt. NATALIE: A what?? LEXI: A yurt! Google it. I’ll wait. NATALIE: I don’t think NATALIE: I’m getting another text from my dad’s nurse. TTYL LEXI: L8R * * * ALICE: Ms. Weston, I wanted to let you know that your father’s had several very lucid days in a row, and he’s been asking about you. It seems he misses you quite a bit. Do you think you will have time to stop by and visit him in the next few days? I know Mr. Price is keeping you busy, but I assured your father I would ask. NATALIE: Mr. Price will be out of town tomorrow. I’ll come by for lunch. Should I call right now and talk to Dad?

ALICE: He says it’s not necessary. He’s about to lie down for a nap. He says he’s looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. * * * I’m feeling a little out of sorts as the sedan pulls into the new parking lot at the Chap Weston Museum. In a way, I don’t want to come back. That’s terrible to think, but I can’t help it. I’ve been so happy with Clay this last week, I don’t want it to end. I don’t want anything to interfere with my bubble of contentment. I realize as the car pulls in that while I’ve been going about the day-to-day of life, I haven’t exactly been happy here with Dad. And then I feel guilty for thinking such things. It’s been less than two weeks since Clay came back into my life. Surely it’ll take longer for us to fall back in love again, won’t it? Except I’m pretty sure I’m already there all over again. Maybe I never stopped. Of course, I’m not going to tell Clay that. He’ll think I’m crazy. I’m going to sit on it for a while longer, until I’m absolutely sure about how I feel— and that he feels the same way, too. I just don’t know how my dad is going to fit into this picture. Right now everything works out, of course, but I can’t expect Clay to continue to shuck

out money for three nurses permanently, nor can I expect my dad to be happy if I’m gone with Clay almost all of the time. We’re in a weird holding pattern, all three of us. I’m terrified that the future’s going to change things. Focus on the present, I remind myself. Enjoy what you have now. Don’t worry about what tomorrow’s going to bring. So I close my eyes and think about Clay, holding my phone tight in my hands. He’s out visiting one of the potential dig sites with his brothers. It seems Boone is a dowser—whatever that is—and so they like to go in person for a lot of the site visits. Clay wanted me to go with him because he won’t be getting home until late, and he didn’t want to abandon me. I declined, even though I secretly wanted to go with him. Dad’s asking for me, and I feel obligated to go and spend time with him. And here I am. I open my eyes again and gaze out at the newly renovated parking lot. I have to admit that I didn’t realize how shabby the house and the grounds were until now. The parking lot I knew was lumpy and bumpy and full of potholes, and now it’s smooth pavement, with neatly delineated parking spaces for customers. The hedges surrounding the parking lot have been neatly trimmed, and the garden area near the fountain has been given a facelift. Instead of a few scraggly cactuses and native Texas plants,

there’s blooming flowers, a pergola, and riots of color from brand new bushes. The lawns are trimmed and greener than I’ve ever seen them, and there’s even a gardener planting more flowers along the walkway to the inside of the museum. The driver parks the car and comes around to my side, opening the door. “I’ll wait out here for you, Ms. Weston. Take as much time as you need.” I nod. “Thank you.” I slide my phone into my pocket and gaze at the house, my stomach in knots. There’s a few workers scattered outside the house, two of them on ladders and replacing a window on the second floor. There’s a new sign for the museum with a charming logo and a picture of my dad back in his younger, more famous days. Even though I approved all of the changes, I’m still surprised to see the new opening for the gift shop, along with the fresh paint and the brand new roof. Everything looks brand new. Amazing what can be done in just two short weeks. It’s almost like I’m not needed here. Wishful thinking, I’m sure. I open the front door and things look less finished inside. The museum pieces are all covered with dust cloths, stacked along the walls, and the carpets have been pulled up. Men are working feverishly—and surprisingly quietly—on the flooring. There’s very little hammering, and everyone talks in hushed voices. I’m sure it’s all for

my father’s sake, and I wonder if he appreciates the lengths the contractors are going to in order to accommodate him. Probably not. My dad rarely thinks of anyone but himself. I squelch the selfish thought. Mr. Slocum waves at me as I make my way further inside, but I point at the stairs. “I’m just visiting my father,” I assure him. “Carry on.” I hurry up—even the stairs don’t creak anymore!— and turn down the hall toward my father’s room. Before I get there, I can hear music from Little Tiki Princess playing in the background. I knock on the door, biting my lip. I wonder what Dad I’m going to get today—the one that doesn’t know where he is, the one that’s living in the past, or the one that’s coherent and has all his thoughts? “Who is it?” My dad’s voice sounds strong, with just a hint of wobble due to age. “It’s me, Natalie.” “Come in.” I open the door, a beaming smile on my face. “Hi, Dad!” The look I get in return is less than enthusiastic. “So you finally remembered that I exist, eh?” Seems like the dad I’m going to get today is dramatic but coherent. All right, then. I shut the

door behind me, keeping the smile pinned on my face. “Of course I remembered you.” “Hmph.” I ignore my dad’s grouchiness and sit down in the empty chair across from his bed. He’s sitting up, and I’m happy to see his sheets look fresh and crisp. The curtains have been drawn back on the big bay windows in his room, letting in the sunlight, and across from his bed on the wall, Little Tiki Princess plays on the big-screen TV. That’s not surprising, given that my dad loves to watch himself in his old movies. I do like how tidy his shelves are, and how everything’s been kept neat. It seems as if his nurses have been tidying his things, which is good. Dad gets in moods where he pulls everything out, looking for one particular item, and makes a huge mess. He’s like a little kid in that you have to watch him constantly. “It’s been a busy week and I haven’t been able to steal away much,” I tell him as I reach over and hit “Pause” on the remote. “I told you about my new job, didn’t I? It’s the one that lets me afford to get you all these great nurses.” “You told me about the new job, but I don’t see why it’s necessary,” he tells me petulantly. He plucks at the sheets tucked at his waist. “I’d much rather you be downstairs so I can call for you at any time. You should quit this job. It’s not necessary.”

“Of course it’s necessary,” I tell him, clasping my hands in my lap and sitting with my back upright, just like he always chided me to do when I was younger. “No, it’s not. We’re fine on money.” “We’re not fine on money. There isn’t any money. That’s the problem, Dad.” “Nonsense.” He waves a long-fingered hand. “Who told you we were broke? The accountant? It’s his job to be cheap. He’ll always tell you there’s none left, and then he always magically finds more.” “No,” I say firmly. I’ve gone down this path with him before. “You always magically found more because you’d open up a credit card or write a check that the accountants didn’t know about. There’s no money left, Dad.” “You’re wrong. And if we’re so broke, why did you hire all these men to come and fix up the place? I hear them hammering all day long.” My lies are starting to catch up to me. Well, they’re not lies exactly. They’re more like “glaring omissions of truth.” “I told you that we got an investor in the museum. He wants the place looking good for the grand reopening. Don’t you remember?” Dad frowns and then gives a slow shake of his head. “I guess I don’t. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”

That small, sad statement makes me want to cry. “It’s all right.” I reach out and take his hand in mine, clasping it warmly. “Tell me about your nurses. How do you like them? You look good! They must be taking good care of you.” “If you mean do they bother me every minute of the day, the answer is yes.” He gives me a look I’ve come to associate with Chap Weston, the actor (and not Chap Weston my dad). “But they’re all very pretty and they love my stories.” “I hope you’re not harassing the nurses, Dad.” “I just like looking. I can look, can’t I?” I smile. “You can.” “But the nurses aren’t the same as having you here.” He squeezes my hand and gives me a sad look. “It’s not the same as having my daughter around. You should tell your boss that you need time to be with your father.” “It’s just a temporary job,” I tell him, my heart squeezing painfully. It might be temporary but that doesn’t mean I want it to be. “Yes, but I’m old, Natalie. Who knows how much longer I’m going to be around? Shouldn’t we be spending that time together? Instead of you just casting me off to some nurses?” And there’s the guilt trip. Combined with the sad gaze he’s sending in my direction, it works. I feel so guilty. I should be spending more time with him, and he is right, he won’t be around forever.

But spending time with Clay is so nice and it makes me feel so free and happy . . . I bite back my sigh. “I’ll see what I can do.” * * * My mood’s ruined by the time I leave. Even though my dad’s in a chatty mood and he stays in the present the entire time, he likes to lay the guilt on thick, over and over again, until I’m about ready to scream in frustration. It doesn’t help that I already feel guilty, too. He’s not subtle. He doesn’t have to be—everything he says is the truth and confirms my own guilty thoughts. Should I be staying away so much and entrusting strangers—albeit welltrained, competent strangers—to take care of my dad? They don’t know him like I do. They’ll never care for him as much as a daughter would. And to make matters worse, he thinks I’m away because I’m being someone’s assistant. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that there’s not much assisting going on. That it’s all a ruse so Clay could get my attention. I also haven’t told Dad that my new boss is Clay Price. He’d really lose it at that point. The weight of all the secrets and my guilt weighs heavy on me during the car ride back to the hotel. I need a sign from the universe. Something

that will tell me that I’m on the right path, and that I’m doing the right thing by being with Clay. Unfortunately, the universe doesn’t give me any signs. What it does give me are two car wrecks that I pass by on the interstate. I hope those aren’t my “sign.” I pretend they’re not. When I get back to the room, Clay’s still not back yet. He won’t be for a few more hours. But while he’s been gone, he had the hotel staff deliver a dozen roses and put a box of chocolates on the end of the bed, along with a little note for me. Nat, Miss you already. Home soon. CP Of course, that just makes me feel worse. He’s so thoughtful. And it’s only a day trip—to think that he did all this just so I’d feel special while he’s gone for a few hours. I sniffle as I pick up the box of chocolates and then crawl into bed, feeling like the worst daughter—and worst assistant—ever. Eating the whole box of them doesn’t help, either. It just makes me feel worse, because now I’m sick to my stomach as well as feeling guilty. I change into my pajamas and lie in the bed, moping and worrying over what to do. Clay gets home a short time later, and I click off the reality TV show I’m watching as the door opens. He bounds into the room, as if he can’t

stand being without me for another moment, eyes gleaming. He doesn’t pause at the edge of the bed but just flings himself into it next to me, fully dressed, work boots and all. I give a little squeal as a cloud of dust comes up from his clothes. “Clay! You’re filthy!” “Mmm, yes I am.” He pulls me down under him and begins to nibble on my neck. “I thought so many filthy things about you today. I’m surprised your ears weren’t burnin’, babe.” I sputter at the amount of loose dirt that comes off his clothing. “Did you get caught in a sandstorm?” “Naw. It’s just windy and flat out there. Visited the new rig site and then went ’n’ said hello to Seth. He wasn’t none too pleased about bein’ back on the job, but Boone n’ Gage were givin’ him hell about skippin’ out on work, so he went back out. Knox and I showed up to jaw with him a little.” He nips at my neck. “You don’t like a big, smelly redneck as your man, baby?” I do, actually. The problem is that I like it far too much. I want to make a sassy retort, but I think of my father’s disapproving face and tears come to my eyes. “Nat?” Clay lifts his head and looks at me, worried. “What’s wrong?” I sniff and try to fight back tears, because I don’t want to tell him. “Nothing.”

His eyes darken. “What did your father say to you?” “Am I that obvious?” He sits up, shaking his head. As he does, he grabs the front of my pajama top and begins to slowly unbutton it. “I just think that all week, every time we’ve been apart, you smiled when you saw me. Now today, you visit your dad, and when I see you, you’re about ready to cry. So it don’t take a genius to figure out that he’s the cause.” “What are you doing?” I ask as he continues to unbutton my clothes. “Gettin’ you undressed for our shower. Don’t change the subject. What’d he say to you?” He’s too good at interpreting me. I bite back my sigh and let him continue unbuttoning my shirt. “He doesn’t like the nurses being there as much as he likes his daughter waiting on him.” Clay snorts. He finishes unbuttoning my top and pushes it to the sides, exposing my breasts and stomach. He gazes down at them with pure pleasure on his face, then glances back up at me. “Continue.” “He says that since I’m his daughter and he doesn’t have much time left in this world, I should be spending my time with him.” I make a little squeal of protest as Clay buries his face between my breasts. He’s growing his beard out again—at

my suggestion—and right now the stubble is raspy and hard. “I thought we were going to shower!” “We are. Eventually.” He kisses the tip of one breast. “But I plan on fuckin’ you in the shower and I don’t wanna be talking about your dad at that point.” One hand cups my breast and he rubs his thumb over the tip. “‘Sides, these distract me.” I shift under his touch, thrusting my breast into his hand. “Then we don’t talk about my dad anymore. It’s just a guilt trip. I just hate that it works so well. He’s right, you know—” “What, that he’s old? Well, yeah. But that don’t mean you gotta give your life up for him. The only reason he’s bringin’ this shit up is because he’s just tryin’ whatever it’ll take to bring you back to his side and make you take up nursin’ him again. Am I wrong?” I think for a moment, and then shake my head. I know he’s not. In my heart, I know he’s right. “I get reports from the nurses, too, you know.” He lazily licks a trail between my breasts. “You do?” I’m so surprised I sit up on my elbows and nearly knock him backward. “I do,” he says, putting a finger on my shoulder and lowering me back to the bed. “You wanna know what they tell me?” At my nod, he continues. “He’s manipulative. He’s good-natured and sweet if it gets him what he wants. If it doesn’t, he pitches a fit. He uses guilt. And he’s a great actor.”

All of this sounds terribly unflattering and almost mean. “He’s old, and he’s sick—” “He is. Don’t mean he’s not a bastard. The girls like him well enough. But they also deal with enough patients just like him to see through the bullshit. Your dad’s healthier than he lets on. He just likes you takin’ care of him.” “But—” “I ain’t makin’ light of the fact that he’s got dementia. But he’s got more good days than bad. Alice says it’s good that he’s around different people. Stimulates the mind. He just prefers a situation—and people—he can control. That’s why he wants you back.” I’m a little hurt by Clay’s statement. “I’m also his daughter and he loves me.” “He does, I’m sure.” Clay cups my other breast and lowers his mouth to it. “But I’m also sure he’s usin’ you, and now that you’ve got a bit of freedom, he’s poutin.” He gives it a distracting lick. “He’s just tryin’ to pull us apart again.” I don’t know if that’s true, because he doesn’t know Clay’s involved. But I do think he’s right about a lot of it. My dad can be a user, and he can turn on the acting charm to get what he wants. It shouldn’t surprise me that he can just as easily turn on the guilt trip. “All right. No more about my father.”

“Amen.” He nips at my nipple, sending a shiver through my body. “Now to get you naked and in the shower.” I lift my hips and shimmy out of my pajama bottoms. “You have a one-track mind.” “When it comes to you? Very much so.” He watches me undress with hungry eyes, his grin growing wider. “Can’t wait to get my mouth on that sweet pussy again.” His words make me blush. “Well, maybe I want to get my mouth on you.” “Gonna be hard to do if I’m fully dressed,” he teases. “Oooh, a challenge.” I grab at the front of his shirt and tug. It’s like a dare. For the next few moments, both of us rip at his clothing, determined to get him naked as quickly as possible. His jeans pool at his legs, and then he nearly rolls off the bed trying to wrestle his boots off. My giggles only make him move faster, and then it seems he’s about to fling himself over the side when suddenly, one boot goes flying free, then the other. He grins at me, fully naked, and smacks my rump with the flat of his hand. “Why are you not in the shower already?” “I was waiting for a slowpoke,” I tell him, climbing off the oversized hotel bed. “I’ll give you a slow poke,” he mock-growls.

“Oooh, a threat,” I say in my sassiest voice, and swing my hips with a little extra oomph as I head toward the lush bathroom. The shower’s like something out of a dream, with multiple heads and the prettiest tile I’ve ever seen caged in by glass. I love using it, because it makes me feel like a princess. Tonight, though, I want to wash my man. I turn on the water, running a hand under the spray until the temperature is just right. Then, instead of stepping in, I gesture that Clay should go first. “I’m going to rub that dirt off of you.” “I like the sound of this.” He steps in and I can’t help but pause to admire the gorgeousness of his form as he lifts his hands and drags his fingers through his short hair. I love how big his shoulders are, how broad and tanned by the sun. But funnily enough, I think I love his white butt even more. Even though there’s a crazy tan line, his ass is tight and firm and high, and it just makes me want to bite it so badly every time I see it. Never thought I’d be the type to daydream about getting my teeth on a man’s buns, but I guess I am. I grab a bottle of the travel-sized shower gel and squirt a palmful on my hand. “I’m sure it’ll be more effective if I use a washcloth, but what’s the fun in that?”

“No fun at all,” he says, and his voice has dropped to a lower, huskier note that makes me shiver all over. I press my soapy hand to his chest and then begin to slowly rub as he stands in the shower spray, blocking it from hitting me. There’s a ton of soap in one spot, so I use both hands in small circles to spread the wealth. Plus, it gives me a chance to touch him. I glide my fingers over his pectorals, making sudsy whorls in his chest hair and dragging deliberately over his nipples. I go further down, soaping up his abdomen, and I love how rock-hard the muscles are here, and how defined his obliques are. “You have the most incredible body,” I tell him softly. “Every time I see it, I just want to touch you.” “Funny, I feel that way about you,” he tells me, sliding a wet hand up and down my arm and then cupping one of my breasts. “Love how pretty and sexy you are, Nat. You’re so perfect, so soft. I wanna push you down on the floor here and get my mouth on your pussy—” “Not yet,” I tell him, gasping at his intense words. “I get to wash you first, remember?” He makes an impatient sound in his throat. “Then hurry so I can touch you.” Hurry? That just makes me want to take even more time. I deliberately go slower, tracing over every muscle and outlining it before moving on. I

get to his tan line. Lower would mean I get to touch his straining cock . . . and then I’m pretty sure things would escalate pretty fast from there. I change routes, instead, moving to his arms and soaping them up. Clay groans. “Tease.” He’s right. I love teasing him. I love being playful with him. I feel like I’ve had to be so serious, so focused for so long that there’s been no time for play. With him, I can be as silly and light and carefree as I want to be. And I’m definitely feeling frisky at the moment. I lightly drag my nails down his arm, then slide down to my knees and begin to soap up one big thigh. He makes a sound in his throat that sounds pained, and his hand goes to my hair, knotting his fingers in it as if he wants to hold me in place. Oh yes. I might be a tease, but he enjoys it just as much as I do. I’m getting wet with my own excitement at touching him. I can feel the slick heat between my legs growing, and I shift back and forth, squirming in place as I run my hands up and down his strong thigh. “Think you’re clean yet?” “I can think of one spot you haven’t hit yet.” His hand tightens in my hair, and I get even wetter. But I want more than that. “Show me,” I tell him, breathless. I know exactly what he’s referring to, but I want him to drag me there, just because

the mental image of him doing that makes me crazy with need. So he does. He uses the hand buried in my hair to steer me ever closer to his cock, until my mouth’s practically brushing against the head of it. It’s flushed with the blood racing through his arousal, and the head is tipped with several droplets of pre-cum. I stick my tongue out and catch the first drop on the tip of it. The breath hisses from his lungs. “Take me in your mouth, baby.” Oh, I planned on it. I continue to just use the tip of my tongue, though, dragging it over the head of his cock in tiny little circles. “Fuck, I love your mouth,” he tells me between panting breaths. “Only thing I love more than your tongue are your lips.” I swallow back my giggle. “Is that a hint?” “You can do what you like with me and you know that,” Clay murmurs. “I’m at your mercy.” The thought gives me a giddy rush of power. Here, on my knees, I’m the one in charge of this man and his pleasure. I can do what I want with him . . . Lucky for him, I want to drive him crazy with lust. But first, I want to play a bit more. I lean in and give the head of his cock a smacking, puckered, girlish kiss. “There. All done.”

His groan of frustration is like sweet music, and I can’t help the laughter that erupts from me. “You’re the cruelest woman to ever touch me.” “I’m the only woman to ever touch you.” “That, too. Still the cruelest.” But I feel a fierce sense of possessive pleasure in the realization that he’s all mine. No matter what happened between us in the past, he didn’t move on. He waited for me. Maybe we’re meant to be together after all, and this won’t be just a quick thing between us. We have a history, him and I. I slide a hand underneath his cock and cup his sac. I haven’t had much of an opportunity to play with this part of him, and I have to admit, it’s pretty foreign to me. I’m not exactly sure how to work it, so I decide to go the safe route and caress it while I work his cock with my mouth. “Look at you,” he grits out, as if it’s difficult to speak. “So pretty with my cock in your mouth. Love seein’ that.” A low groan escapes him. “God, you’re good at this. A fuckin’ natural.” Excited by how turned on he is, I work even harder, rubbing and caressing his sac as I suck on his cock. I take him as far into my throat as I can, using my other hand to guide him as I drag his length back and forth over my tongue. He shifts his weight forward, almost thrusting into my mouth, and his hand grows tight on my hair once more.

“No,” he murmurs after a moment. “I want to be inside you when I come. Stand up, baby.” I release him with one last sad lick, then get to my feet. He cups my face and pulls me close in a fierce kiss, then cups my ass with his hands, squeezing tight. “Wait here. I’ll get the condom.” “Should I think about getting on the pill?” “Nah,” he says. “Won’t do any good. Wait here.” Weirdly enough, my feelings are hurt. The pill won’t do any good? Is that because it takes a month to kick in? And . . . we’ll be done by then? Pain stabs through me at the thought. I don’t want to be done. I don’t ever want Clay to leave me again. I don’t know how I’m going to cope— Stop it, I tell myself, closing my eyes and leaning into the shower spray. You promised yourself you’d live in the moment, remember? You weren’t going to worry about tomorrow. Easier said than done, of course. But then Clay returns, condom on, and gives me another fierce kiss, and I’m swept up in the passion of the moment. He wants me. I can feel the hard length of him pushing against my stomach as we kiss. There’s no question he wants me. Maybe the attraction can grow into something deeper again. If not, then I’ll deal with that when that day gets here. Until then, I know what I’ve bought into. It’s

a contract, nothing more, and I can enjoy it just as much as him. I wrap my arms around his neck and return his kiss with a fierce intensity of my own. He grips my hips, holding me tight against him. “Turn around,” he whispers after a moment. “Put your hands on the wall and present that pretty ass to me.” I shiver at his delicious words and do just as he says. A moment later, his hands go on my hips and he thrusts into me, hard and sharp. I suck in a breath, shocked at how good it feels, how full. I’m always amazed by that first push into me, no matter how many times we have sex. It’s like my body forgets just how incredible it is to be filled by him. His hands go tight on my hips, and I know this isn’t going to be a lengthy session of lovemaking. We’re both too keyed up for that. I brace my hands as he thrusts into me again, as hard as the first time. Then again. Over and over, he rocks into me with possessive determination, until my fingers are curling against the tiles and I’m crying out his name. The slow, elusive orgasm I’ve come to think of as the “belly” orgasm begins to build, and I whimper, “I’m close” to let Clay know that he needs to keep moving just like that. But he doesn’t—he pushes into me deep and his other hand goes to my pussy. His fingers spread my

folds and in the next moment, he’s rubbing against my clit, and thrusts into me once more. I shatter. He doesn’t stop, and it feels as if my climax builds on another. With every circling touch of his fingers around my clit, every thrust, it feels like I’m coming anew, and I sob as the orgasms fly into one another. Clay comes a moment later, his hand finally moving away from my clit, and he tangles his fingers in the curls covering my mound, as if claiming it for himself, and buries his face against my neck. “Nat,” he breathes, and I wait for words of love. I wait for him to tell me that he loves me, so I can tell him how I feel. But he just presses a kiss to my shoulder, and I realize I’m going to have to keep waiting.

Chapter Fourteen One Week Later

Clay “Quit squirmin’,” I tell Nat as she shifts on the seat next to me. I put my hand on her thigh, letting my fingers graze close to her pussy, because that usually distracts her. Today, not so much. She just squirms even more, craning her head to look out the window of the sedan as we drive down the highway. “I’m just nervous.” “What about?” “Everything,” Nat tells me breathlessly. “You’ve poured so much money into this and I just want it to look right. I want everything to look good. I want you to get your dollars’ worth out of it. I want to feel like— Oh look! There’s the billboard!” She presses her fingers to her mouth and practically glues her forehead to the window as we pass by a large advertisement on the side of the interstate. It’s a black-and-white picture of her

father in a sailor hat from one of his movies, and the new logo. The sign reads CHAP WESTON HOLLYWOOD MUSEUM AND MEMORABILIA —NEXT EXIT! Doesn’t look like anything I’d ever be into, but Nat’s eyes gleam with happy tears and it makes me feel good. Also makes my dick hard, but I don’t say anythin’ about that. Ain’t the time. My sweet Nat worries about everything and I want her to enjoy herself today. It’s been real apparent to me that my Nat has been stressed. She worries about her father, who’s been increasingly demanding in his requests that she spend her time with him instead of passin’ him off to nurses. She worries I’ve thrown too much money away on this silly contract of ours. She worries my family’s gonna think she’s usin’ me for my money. She worries I’m not gettin’ enough out of this to make me happy. Nat’s always been a sweetheart who thinks of others before herself, but this constant state of agitation is worryin’ to me. She ain’t gonna make everyone happy, so I’m not sure why she even wants to try. I’m happy. She’s happy. That’s all that matters to me. I let my hand play on her thigh, rubbing my thumb back and forth over the soft floral material of her skirt. She’s wearin’ one of those typically

“Natalie” light-colored sweaters over a little floral dress that falls to her knees, and it makes me wanna flip the skirt up and expose her pretty ass. Maybe I’ll distract her and joke that we haven’t explored anal yet, and it’s in the contract. Lord knows my poor baby needs distractin’. Suppose I could always have the driver find the nearest hotel and distract her for a few hours in my favorite kinda way. I like that thought. So does my dick. I’m pretty sure Nat would like it, too—one of the things that’s so amazin’ about her is that she’s just as excited for me to touch her as I am, every damn time. I thought maybe once we got the initial torrid bouts of fuckin’ out of our systems, things would slow down. Not so much, though. If anythin’, it’s been gettin’ worse. Now all it takes to get me hard is a whiff of her perfume, or a hint of her smile. Nat laughing? Dick hard. Nat sighing? Dick hard. Nat glancin’ over at me in the car like she just did? Dick instantly hard. Doesn’t take much. I’m crazier about the girl than I ever was, and I thought I was insanely in love seven years ago. Doesn’t hold a candle to how I feel about her now. All of this has just kinda reinforced that she’s meant to be mine. That we’re meant to be together forever. I slide my hand a little higher up her skirt, my pinky finger awful close to the promised land. Nat

only sighs and shifts her weight in her seat, as if she wants my hand there, too. And I think a bit harder about gettin’ that hotel room. Though I guess it ain’t a good idea—I don’t have condoms on me. I think back to her mention of the pill from the other day. Didn’t really think about it too much because every time it comes up, I’m wantin’ to be deep inside her. But truth of the matter is, I don’t want her on birth control. I wanna be deep inside her, fillin’ her up with my seed. I want her belly to be rounded with my baby, like Ivy’s is with Boone’s. I want us to be a family. I want to make her mine permanently. Birth control just seems like that’d delay things. So I shoot it down every time she suggests it. When she’s ready, we’ll discard the condoms and I’ll slide into her, as bare as anything, and fuck her the way she should be fucked. Damn it, I’m getting uncontrollably hard just thinkin’ about that. Wish she’d let her hand wander over to my cock the way mine’s wanderin’ toward her tasty little cunt. Maybe she’d let me fling that skirt over my head and I could lick her for a while here in the back seat— “Oh,” Nat says, distractin’ me from my filthy train of thoughts. “It looks so good. Look, Clay!” She reaches out and takes my hand in hers, squeezin’ my fingers.

As we pull up to the front of the museum, I have to admit, it does look a hell of a lot better. The house itself has been given a fresh makeover, lookin’ clean and new. The grounds have been landscaped into a pretty impressive set of gardens. One section is covered in flowers and has a sign stating that it’s straight outta a scene from Little Tiki Princess. There’s one long row of hedges that’s been shaped into a submarine from another Chap Weston movie. There’s even a bunch of sculpted bushes set up to look like the Hollywood Hills with a smaller-scaled Hollywood sign nestled in ’em. Nearby, there’s a bunch of cutouts of scenes from Chap Weston movies that people can put their faces in and have photos taken of themselves. It’s touristy crap, but Nat looks so pleased. She keeps makin’ these happy little gasps every time she sees things. Even the parking lot gets a happy exclamation. “Look at how many spaces there are! Oh my goodness. If we had this many people show up, Dad wouldn’t be in debt anymore.” When the car stops, she takes my hand in hers and gives me an eager smile. “Come on, Clay. Let’s go see what else they’ve done!” How can I refuse? I can deny this gorgeous woman nothin’. Even today, I’m supposed to be meetin’ with my brothers to go over plans for the purchase of new land that has the potential for oil,

and I’ve still gotta catch up with Fred about the IntelligentCamo production. Doesn’t seem as important as makin’ Natalie smile, though. Everythin’ pales next to that. I adjust my too-hard cock as we get out of the car and head up the walkway to the new “front” of the museum. I have to admit it looks vastly different than it did before. The signs are bright and new, the roof and paint have transformed the place, and everything looks clean and invitin’. Even the sidewalk has been freshly poured and has horseshoes peppered in the cement to give it a charmin’ kinda feel. I can tell from the look on Natalie’s face that she loves it, too. She turns to me and the expression on her face is nothin’ short of joyous. “My father’s going to love this.” Like I care what that old bastard thinks. I like him even less now that I know he deliberately drove me and Nat apart. She might be willing to look past what happened, but it still burns in my gut. Only reason I haven’t gone and punched the lights out of the old man is the fact that he’s eightyseven, out of his mind . . . and is probably gonna be my father-in-law someday. Natalie squeezes my hand as she leads me up the sidewalk, and when she opens the door to the ranch home, she gasps. “Oh my! Look at how beautiful and clean everything is!” She drags me

forward, exclaiming as we go room by room through the areas designated as the museum proper. There are mannequins in gowns and posed in scenes, props well lit with a spotlight instead of relegated to a dusty corner, and it all looks like a real museum instead of just stuff in the front of someone’s house. I make a mental note to give Slocum a bonus, because he did a real good job and my Natalie is so damn happy. She holds tight to my hand as we go through the tour area, and then has to go through all the new items in the gift shop, exclaiming over mugs with printed sayings or new postcards like they’re somethin’ special. I endure it, even if I don’t see what the big fuss is. I know it’s important to her. She turns to look at me after a time, and there are more tears shinin’ in her eyes. “Oh, Clay,” she breathes. “This is just how I imagined it would be when we tried to set up a museum. It’s so perfect.” Her hands go to the front of my T-shirt. “Thank you so much, truly. You don’t know how much this means to me.” That’s the thing. I do know just how much it means to her. It means she has a fightin’ chance of bein’ able to support her dad with this place instead of scrapin’ pennies together. It means less to worry about. It means she might be able to have a life instead of givin’ everythin’ up to a cranky old man like some kinda martyr.

But all I say is, “Glad you like it.” “I love it.” Her enthusiasm fades a little as she looks around the expanded gift shop. There’s a section that sells baked goods and coffee and has a few tiny tables set up like a miniature cafe. Slocum thought she might get more traffic through the gift area if she had a reason for them to linger, and I think it’s a good idea. “I’m just not sure how one person is going to manage all of this, though. I’ll need to be in three places at once.” She thinks for a moment, and then adds, “Four, actually. I’ve still got to look after Dad.” The thought makes me ill. She still thinks she has to do all this herself? “Actually,” I drawl, “I’ve hired an actress to sell tickets at the front and give tours. She’ll take care of that aspect. Got a script memorized and everythin’.” I don’t mention that I’ve agreed to finance a movie she’s writin’ that will star her and it’ll end up costin’ a pretty penny. Nat would be upset. “And then there’s an employee to run the gift shop, and I talked to Slocum and a local baker is gonna use this section over here”—I point at the cafe—“to sell fresh goods. She runs the counter and charges a markup and you get fifty percent of the profits because you have a place for her to run her business. Works out for both of you. And then, of course, there’s a cleanin’ crew that’ll come by nightly to tidy the place up. It’s all taken care of.”

Her eyes widen. “Then all I have to do is take care of my father.” Or me, I want to say. Or you can spend your time with me. “Mmm.” “How much is this all going to cost you, Clay? I worry you’re getting a bad deal here.” Her pretty blue eyes look worried. “We need to talk about this, because I know it’s not an open-ended agreement and I don’t want you to think I’m raiding your wallet—” “Well, now,” I tease, pulling her against me. “Anal’s still on the table, you know.” Her face colors bright red. “Maybe not that, then,” I murmur, leaning in to nibble on one of her tasty little ears. “Maybe we find a quiet corner and I lift up your skirts and explore your pussy with my moustache, hmm? Been workin’ real hard to regrow it for you.” I can feel her tremble against me. “My bedroom is upstairs,” she whispers. Even better. I like the thought of pushin’ deep into Natalie on her girlhood bed. Makes me feel like a dirty scoundrel, all right. “Lead the way.” She takes my hand in hers again and leads me through the back of the house, to a set of stairs along the back wall. We head up, and it leads into a long hallway that stretches across the second floor. She turns immediately toward the first door, giving

me a small smile over her shoulder that promises naughtiness. “I want to see my daughter,” calls out an imperious voice. “I know you’re keeping her from me!” Natalie hesitates, and I know the moment is gone. Damn it. She looks back at me, concern on her face. “I should go see what’s going on.” “You should let the nurses handle it,” I tell her, but it falls on deaf ears. Nat’s soft heart isn’t going to let her ignore her elderly father. She releases my hand and heads further down the hall toward the massive set of double doors that clearly leads to Chap Weston’s room. I sigh and cross my arms over my chest, followin’ behind her. Like I got a choice. I’ll go wherever this girl leads, if nothin’ else to protect her from anyone that’d try to take advantage of her. She knocks on the door, and then waves me back, indicating I should stay out of sight. Well, fuck that. I stroll forward as she enters the room. “Hello?” she calls. “Natalie?” Her father’s voice is strong despite his age. “Why did you leave me with these terrible people?” I move toward the doorway, leaning casually just in sight so I can survey the situation. It’s easy to see that Chap Weston hasn’t deprived himself

despite being broke. There’s a massive TV on the wall, his bed is a carved monstrosity on a raised dais, and there’s expensive lookin’ furniture all over the enormous room. Off in one corner is a minibar and a refrigerator, and a ten-foot-long fish tank full of colorful, exotic fish. Somethin’ tells me that if I went and checked out Nat’s room, it’d be plain and sparse. But that’s how things have always been with Chap Weston and his daughter. He treats her like she’s one of the staff—unimportant and there for his convenience—and she lets him. “Mr. Weston,” one of the nurses says, patience in her voice. “All I’m trying to do is get you to change into your day clothing. It’s not a good idea to sit in bed all day. You need to get up and move around. It’s good for your heart.” It’s clear from her tone that she’s had this conversation with him plenty of times before. “I don’t want to get up,” Chap Weston snarls at them. “I want to wallow in bed like the forgotten old man that I am.” When that doesn’t elicit a response from the nurse, he turns to Natalie. “You see how they are? They act like it’s a crime for me to lie in bed. They harass and poke until I’m exhausted.” “Dad,” Nat says in a gentle voice. She moves to his side and extends her hand to him. “The nurses are just trying to do what’s best for you. Alice is

right. It’s not good for you to lie in bed all day. You’ll feel better if you get up and move around—” He slaps her hand away feebly. “Don’t tell me what to do! You’ve abandoned me!” “I haven’t,” Nat protests. “You know I’ve been busy, Dad. We talked about this last week. I have a new job and my new boss has been very understanding, but he needs me to spend my time with him.” “Do I have to hire my own daughter to look after me?” Chap asks in a cranky voice. “Is that what this is coming to? I’m going to have to pay my daughter to spend time with her father?” Oh please. What a dramatic old bullshitter. “You couldn’t afford to buy her away from me,” I call out, a cocky drawl in my voice. Nat shoots me an unhappy look, but I don’t care. Maybe I’m lookin’ to pick a fight with the old bastard. Maybe I’m just darin’ the guy to keep treatin’ Natalie like she’s thoughtless, because I want her to see what an asshole he is. Chap Weston’s gaze moves over the room and fixes on me. He squints in my direction, frowning at the sight of me leaning casually on the doorframe. “Who is that?” “That’s the man I’m working for,” Nat says vaguely. “Now, Dad—” “Clay Price,” I call out. It’s clear he didn’t recognize me, and it’s clear that Nat’s not going to

volunteer the information, so I’m going to. I want to see if he remembers who I am and how he dicked me over. The old man’s eyes narrow. “The trashy boy? The one that tried to steal my daughter away?” “That’s the one,” I drawl before Natalie can respond. Trashy boy. Fuck him. “Dad,” Nat scolds. “Clay’s a billionaire now. He’s a good man and he’s not trash. He’s helping me out of the mess we’re in by hiring me.” “He’s probably just hiring you to get under your skirts, Natalie. I know what men like him are like.” The scowl on his face isn’t that of a father as much as that of a child being robbed of his favorite toy. “You should spend time with me and not him.” “I’m working for Clay,” Nat says again, her voice firm, and I’m fuckin’ proud of that. At least, for a moment I am, because then she continues with, “I’ll be back at your side again shortly. It’s just a temporary contract.” Temporary, my ass. Does she not want to make a go of this thing we have? I try to keep a neutral expression on my face, but I’m gettin’ frustrated. “I see.” Chap Weston’s tone is disapproving. “So you’d rather spend your time with trash than your ailing father.” “That’s not it at all—” “No,” I cut in. “That’s exactly it. She’d rather be with me.”

Everyone shoots a glare in my direction. I don’t care. I’m gettin’ annoyed that this old man’s whining and they’re all fallin’ for it. “He’s not good for you, Natalie. Haven’t I warned you about men like him in the past?” Chap Weston shakes his head. “You’re going to have to pick between a man that’s using you and your father.” “Oh, that’s bullshit,” I explode. “You’re the one using her!” “Gentlemen, please,” Alice the nurse says. “Let’s not do this.” I wait for Nat to say somethin’. To defend me to her father. But she just gets this helpless look on her face and gets to her feet. “I have to go, Dad.” Well, at least she’s choosin’ to leave with me. I suppose that’s somethin’. Still kinda wish she’d put her dad in his place, though, and told him that she loved me. When she gets to my side, I pull her close and whisper in her ear. “Not again, all right? He’s doin’ this to make you dance like a puppet on strings. I ain’t havin’ it.” Maybe I’m selfish, but I want Nat to myself. “Long as we’re in this contract, you’re my assistant, not his.” She nods.

Natalie NAT: I hated seeing that the house was almost finished, Lex. What’s wrong with me? LEXI: You’re getting some good D and you don’t want that to change? I don’t see a problem with that. NAT: It’s my home, but every time I go back there, I start to feel trapped. But Clay hasn’t said that he wants me to stay, either. NAT: I asked him if he wanted me to get on the pill the other day and he said there was no need. LEXI: Ouch. So he’s got an exit strategy. That’s gonna leave a mark. LEXI: There’s this lady online that does Santeria if you send her some Bitcoin. We could ask her to sacrifice a chicken to give him bad luck. NAT: Be serious. I’m hurting here. LEXI: Okay, sorry. :( LEXI: I’m not good with the touchyfeely shit. You need someone to wear all black and glower in the shadows, I’m your girl. LEXI: You need someone to stand at the back of the room and mock everyone normal, I’m your girl. LEXI: You need a shoulder to cry on and I make Santeria jokes. Sorry.

NAT: I just . . . wish I knew where I stood. LEXI: Ask him? NAT: And say what? Hey, you know this contract we have? I really like being with you and I’d be happy to stay even if you didn’t pay me! LEXI: Works for me? NAT: But that doesn’t mean I can, you know? What about my dad? What about the upkeep on the business? Everything costs money and that’s the one thing I don’t have. I don’t want Clay to think I’m staying with him because I see him as a wallet. LEXI: If only there was some way you could tell him how you really feel . . . LEXI: Oh wait! LEXI: How about you—wait for it—tell him HOW YOU REALLY FEEL. NAT: Har de har. NAT: I think I’m terrified of what he’ll say. NAT: Our contract is terminated at any time at his discretion, not mine. NAT: What if I press him and he thinks I’m clingy and gold-digging and boots me out the door? LEXI: Then . . . you have your answer?

I want to throw my phone across the room. I hate that Lexi makes sense. She’s basically telling me to be brave. To tell Clay how I feel—that I’m in love again—even if it’s fast. Even if he isn’t. Get it all off my chest so I can be at peace with however things go between us. If it was just me? I would, I think. I’d do my best to be strong and to sit Clay down and have a serious conversation with him about where we’re going. As it is, I don’t have any leverage in this relationship. I don’t feel like I’m the one that can make that conversation happen. I’ve got too much baggage—my father, his failing business, my past with Clay where I didn’t believe in him. Things are different now, and I’m the one with my hand out. I feel like no matter how I approach Clay with my true feelings, it’s going to seem calculating and suspicious. If he’d just give me a hint of how he truly feels . . . That’s the thing with Clay, though. He’s so good at hiding his feelings behind a smile. He never lets anyone see what he’s truly thinking. He can hide his emotions better than anyone. Every time I’ve fished for hints about our future, I’ve been met with zero emotion or turned away. I feel like I should know the answer—that we don’t have a future together—and maybe I’m just being blind to it. All I need is a sign, I tell myself.

Just one sign that Clay is coming to care for me again. We have great sex and we enjoy being together. We’re friends and fantastic sex partners and . . . and I want more. I don’t know if Clay does. So a sign from the universe would be great about now. * * * Clay and I are curled up on the couch the next day, watching House Hunters. “Maybe you need a house like that,” I tell him when a couple rejects a lovely four-bedroom ranch because it doesn’t have granite countertops. “It’s not that fussy. It’s spacious, and way nicer than your trailer, but not so big that you couldn’t take care of it yourself.” “Mmm.” That’s Clay’s answer whenever he doesn’t necessarily agree with me, but doesn’t want to contradict me. My legs are in his lap and he begins to run a finger up and down the arch of one foot, tickling me as a distraction. “What?” I ask, giggling and trying to squirm out of his ticklish grip. “What about my maid?” I sputter. “You have a maid? In your trailer?” “Well, yeah. You didn’t think I was that tidy myself, did you?”

“I did,” I protest. “I mean, who has a maid and lives in a single-wide?” “Me.” Clay grins. “You’d be better off with a house. And you can afford one. Even the one on TV is a huge upgrade to what you have.” “Mmm.” “Don’t ‘mmm’ me,” I tease. “What’s wrong with that house?” “You heard them,” he says, nodding at the TV. “No granite countertops.” I snort. “Dude, you live in a trailer right now. And you can’t exactly live in this hotel forever.” “Couldn’t we?” he asks, a lazy grin on his face. I stare at him, not sure if I need to interpret that “we” as something other than what it is. Did he misspeak? Or does he mean he’s thinking about the both of us in the future? At that moment, my phone rings. Frustrated, I grab it and leap off of the couch, because I recognize the number—it’s Alice. Clay’s phone rings a scant second later, and he frowns at the screen before picking up the call. “What is it?” I turn the TV off and tuck the phone against my shoulder as I answer it, trotting out into the hall to get a little privacy. I don’t want Clay overhearing the conversation about my dad, because I don’t know how it’s going to go. He gets really touchy when it comes to Dad. Ever since my visit the other

day, he bristles at any mention of my father. It makes things awkward. “Hello?” I say softly. “This is Natalie.” “Natalie? Oh good. I’m glad I caught you.” She sounds a little stressed. “What’s up?” I shut the door to the suite behind me and pace down the hall in the hotel, barefoot. “It’s your father. He’s having a really bad day today.” She pauses, and for a moment, I can hear soft sounds of crying. My heart squeezes. “Is that him?” “Yes. He’s been like that for hours. He doesn’t recognize anyone, and he keeps looking for a Janelle. Do you know who that is?” “It’s my mom,” I murmur. “She died when I was five.” “I’m sorry to hear that. He must have loved her very much.” “I think he did.” Sometimes I think Janelle was the only one he did love. I know a lot of the time it feels like Dad tolerates me rather than cares for me. And then I feel like that’s a terrible thing to think, so I push the thought away. It’s likely due to the age difference, I tell myself. By the time I was born he was sixty-two and didn’t know how to handle a young child. At that age, the only thing he knew to do with women under twenty was date them. Which is also gross to think about, and not helping

the situation. “He’s had these spells before. It takes a while, but he’ll eventually calm down.” “He’s worked himself up quite a bit, actually,” Alice tells me. “I’ve called in the night nurse but we can’t get him to calm down and stop crying. He’s been hysterical all afternoon. I have a call out to his doctor asking about possibly sedating him, but no one’s gotten back to me yet.” “It’s that bad?” I ask, surprised. Alice normally seems so unruffled. “Pretty bad,” she admits. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to come by tonight and see him? Maybe a familiar face would help shake him out of it.” “I don’t know,” I begin. I hear Dad’s voice calling out in the distance. “Natalie? Are you talking to my Natalie?” he demands of Alice. “Tell her I need her here! Right now!” Oh gosh. “I’ll be there in an hour or so. I just need to let Mr. Price know.” “Thank you. The sooner the better.” I hang up. It takes me a moment to realize that Dad was aware that it was me on the phone, and if that was the case, he can’t be as lost in his memories as he normally is. Strange. I don’t know what to think—he’s faked before to try and get my attention, but the crying seemed genuine. Either way, I don’t think I can ignore it, not without a

bucket-load of guilt. I head back toward the suite I share with Clay. I need to think of a way to phrase things that doesn’t make it seem like I’m abandoning him to go sit with my dad again. I am, but I want him to feel like I’m not bailing out. That it’s only for tonight. That I’m not racing to my dad’s side just to coddle him. When I reenter the suite, it’s quiet. Clay’s sitting on one end of the couch, his hand on his jaw, staring off into space. His mouth is a flat line. “Before you say anything,” I begin, positive that he’s upset at me already. “Dad’s having a really bad day. I promise I won’t be more than a few hours, and then I’ll be back.” “A bad day, huh.” His tone is flat, and the smile that curves his mouth has a hard edge to it. “Yes,” I say softly. “I know I said I wouldn’t go back again but he needs me—” “Just go.” Clay gets up from the couch and walks away. That . . . that didn’t sound like he’s fine with it. Anxious, I follow behind him. “You’re sure you don’t mind?” He shrugs his shoulders. “You always go back to him. Go. We’re done.” I feel like I can’t breathe. “We’re . . . done? What do you mean?” “I mean we’re done,” he says flatly. “Contract’s over. You can go home to dear old Dad and not

have to worry about me any longer.” My heart hurts. I feel numb. Just like that, I’m cast aside? He won’t care that I’m gone? He won’t ache and miss me again? Did he “get me out of his system” like he said he would? I stare at his back, waiting for him to turn around. Aching. Needing. Show me that you love me, I mentally beg. Tell me that there’s hope for us. That I’m not the only one that feels like this. But he doesn’t turn around. He just picks up his phone, stares at the screen, and then pockets it again. “That’s all I get?” I ask hoarsely. “That’s all I’ve got to give right now.” Wow. I feel as if I’ve been slapped. I’m beyond hurt. Tears blur my eyes, but I swipe them away. I don’t want Clay seeing me cry. He doesn’t get that. I want to be angry. I want to be furious. But I can’t be, because I knew this was coming. I knew it was too good to be true—that he was too good to be true. I was a fool to think that we might be able to start where we were again. That his heart might not have changed in the last seven years and he could still love me as much as I loved him. That it wasn’t just a contract that involved sex. Guess I’ve been fooling myself all along. I move to where my purse is resting on the table. I should get my clothes, my extra shoes, my toiletries—but right now they don’t seem

important. Right now I just want to gather up the pieces of my broken heart and scurry away. I feel empty and alone and so, so hurt. So I just take my purse and head to the door. I can buy new clothes to replace the ones I’m leaving behind. I don’t think I’ll ever get over the feeling of being discarded. I head down the hall of the hotel, toward the elevator. I’m shivering with cold, even though it’s not that chilly. It’s like my entire body has shut down at the realization that Clay Price doesn’t love me. I’m just . . . shocked that he can turn off his emotions like a switch. Isn’t there anything there? His reaction was just so vacant. I can’t believe he’s breaking up with me because I’m visiting my dad. He knows that my dad isn’t well. He knows that things will come up. He knows that my dad is manipulative, but he’s also elderly and I can’t be cruel to him. I can’t imagine Clay would want that, either. Not after shelling out so much money to ensure that he’s comfortable despite things. It’s not adding up. I don’t understand why he was so cold. So . . . empty to me. Like he had nothing to give me. The longer I think about it, the angrier I start to get. I stare at the elevator doors, not pushing the button that will call the elevator itself and take me away from Clay and our happy little nest.

How dare he? How dare he just use me and make me think we could have a chance? After the weeks we’ve spent together—happy, wonderful weeks full of joy and lovemaking and just enjoying each other’s company —all I get is a “we’re done”? I clench my fists, making a sound of frustration in my throat. No. I deserve more than that. I deserve an explanation of what I did wrong. I deserve to hear how he truly feels. I deserve a real conversation, like two consenting adults would have when they’re breaking up. Instead, all I’m getting is a stiff, closed-off response . . . just like I did seven years ago. Well, fuck that. I march back toward the room, full of righteous fury and indignation. Didn’t we laugh over how this went down seven years ago? How silly we were? I’m not going to let him do it again. Not this time. I get to the door, and I realize I’ve left my keycard inside. I can’t let myself back in. Damn it. I knock on the door. Quietly at first, and then insistently, banging my fist on the elegant wood. My father can wait. It’s probably just a ploy to get me to see him again. Even if it isn’t, he’s got nurses there. I’m not letting my heart take a back seat again. If this isn’t meant to be between me and

Clay, I can accept that . . . after I get a real conversation. I continue knocking furiously, my knuckles bruising under the stress. It’s taking Clay an eternity to answer, but I’m not giving up. After what seems like forever, the door opens and Clay answers. “What’s wrong with you?” I immediately spit at him. He flinches. It’s then that I notice his eyes are stark. His face is as blank as ever, but there’s something . . . missing. Something wrong. He’s really pale. And he’s still got his phone in his hand. “You’re back,” he says dully. “I am,” I say, pushing my way inside. My indignation over our breakup is receding in the wake of real concern. “Clay, something’s wrong. I know I’m being all pissy but I know you well enough to realize that something’s not right and . . .” I go silent as he grabs me as I walk past and then enfolds me in his arms. He buries his face against my neck and just holds me close. So close. Is he . . . regretting our breakup? “I’m sorry,” he says a moment later, and there’s a strange tightness in his throat. “You can go see your dad. I ain’t gonna make you pick between us because I’m not good company tonight.”

I hesitate, then slide my hand up and down his back. “Clay? What is it?” One hand goes to my hair and he curls his hand in it, anchoring himself against me. He doesn’t lift his face from my throat, and after a moment, I can feel wetness there. Tears. “Gage called. Seth’s dead.” Oh, my poor Clay. That’s why he’s been so stone-faced, so alone. His youngest brother’s dead. I hold him close, feeling his pain and wishing I could take it away. How I feel in this moment doesn’t matter nearly as much as what he’s going through. He can break up with me some other time.

Chapter Fifteen Five Days Later

Clay Still hasn’t sunk in. Don’t feel real. Feels like at any time, I’m gonna turn around and see my little brother fidgeting on the sofa. He’d hate somethin’ like this, I think. Seth was always uncomfortable at formal gatherings. Didn’t like to wear a tie. Didn’t like how solemn everyone was. He liked it best when people were laughin’. No one feels like laughin’ right now, though. I sit in a chair in the parlor of Boone’s big honkin’ house as people slowly trickle in for the wake. The stair banisters are hung with black crepe, and there are wreaths of flowers everywhere. A big portrait of Seth is on an easel near the entrance, and Boone’s doin’ his best to be host and somehow managin’ to keep his shit together. Ivy’s at his side, her hand tight on his arm, and I’m not sure if she’s

proppin’ him up or if she needs the support herself. Maybe a little bit of both. “It was a lovely funeral,” someone says, passing by. The wife of an employee. Someone. Dunno who. Dunno that I care. “Thank you,” Nat says, taking the casserole dish that’s shoved into her hands. “I’ll just go put this away. Won’t you have a seat? The family’s in the main parlor.” She hustles past, a flash of black in her dress, her pretty legs set off by her heels. Feels wrong to be checkin’ out my girl’s legs at my brother’s funeral, but I don’t know what else to do. Just so fuckin’ glad she’s here at my side. I pushed her away when I got the news, I think. I was in shock. Don’t even know half of what I said. I just know that she stormed away, cryin’, and then came back. She came back for me, and that’s when I lost it. Bawled like a baby on her shoulder and told her about Seth’s— Fuck. I rub my mouth. Can’t even say the word. Can’t. Doesn’t seem real that my youngest brother’s gone. Doesn’t seem right that I should be at his funeral a little over a month after we were just at Eddie’s funeral and I decided to change my life. At least now I’ve got Nat. I don’t know what I’d have done if she wasn’t here. She’s been amazing this week. Ivy’s struggled, thanks to her own grief and her pregnancy. Boone’s

been a mess. Me too, really. Knox has been distant. Gage has been drunk. We’re all miserable. But Nat just stepped in and took over funeral arrangements. Wanted to make it easier on everyone, so we let her. She and Ivy worked on it while me and my brothers tried to figure out what to do with the Price Brothers now that we’re four instead of five. Just the thought makes my eyes sting. Fuck. I stare up at the ceiling even as people file into the parlor and start murmurin’ condolences to each other. Gage sits next to me, a beer in his hands— Seth’s favorite beer. For the first time in the last week, he isn’t tippin’ a bottle back to his mouth. He’s just holdin’ it, empty. Think he’s the one that’s takin’ this harder than all of us. I’m tore up, but Gage . . . he’s broken. He and Seth were closest out of all of us—both in age and in friendship. “I’m the one that nagged him to go back to work,” Gage says suddenly. “Huh?” I look over at him. Gage stares at his beer, expression hollow. “I told him that Boone wanted him to show his stuff. That he needed to make us proud. Everyone did their turn on a rig, you know? Didn’t matter that we had money. It was a pride thing. That’s what Price brothers do. We roughneck. And he didn’t wanna go.” He rolls the bottle back and forth in his hands. “I talked him into it.”

“You didn’t know,” I tell him, the knot back in my throat. Seems permanently lodged there lately. “It was a freak accident. Equipment slipped. It happens.” I wiggle my toes in my boot, because every time there’s a rig accident, I think about mine and what it cost me. Cost Seth his life. “I should have known,” Gage says bitterly. “Seth was such a dumbass, you know? Never paid attention. That’s why his rig had an accident—he always got distracted. The others won’t say whose fault it was that the pipe got loose, but you and I both know he was a lazy little fuck.” He gets up and suddenly flings the beer bottle across the room. It crashes against the wall, leaving a wet splat, and the wake goes silent. “Can’t stay here,” Gage says, and storms out of the room. Natalie comes in a moment later, eyes wide. Her gaze goes to the stain on the wall. “I’ll get some towels.” She races away and comes back a short time later, shooing Ivy away from cleaning it up. She’s got it. She’s takin’ care of all of us, I think. Nat hates seein’ people hurt. She just wants to make it better. I don’t deserve her. She’s too good. I watch, aching, as she picks up glass and then hurries off to dispose of it. I worry I’ve fucked things up between us. That night, I know I hurt her

feelings. She came back anyhow, and I cried on her shoulder, but ever since then, I know I’ve been distant and preoccupied. It’s like everything that happens this week is another stab in the gut. Meetings with shareholders to determine what’s going to happen to Seth’s share of Price Brothers Oil. Meetings with lawyers to determine how his estate will be settled. Meetings with employees to fill out work reports. Meetings with the funeral home. It’s a never-ending parade of reminders that my little brother, who had his entire life ahead of him, lost it all on a simple rig accident. And I haven’t been dealin’ with it too well. I haven’t touched Nat in days. I’ve wanted to. God, have I wanted to. But it feels wrong to touch her and be happy to have her in my arms when Seth’s gone. I feel guilty for the contentment I feel when I wake up with her in bed, curled up next to me. I don’t know how to handle it. So I don’t, and I suspect that just makes things worse. Nat hasn’t said anything to me, but she has to be imagining the worst. How can she not? I haven’t been the man she deserves. Not lately. Someone comes and sits down next to me. I straighten, about to tell them to fuck off, when I realize it’s a heavily pregnant blonde woman. Ivy. She settles in the chair next to me and then rests a hand on the top of her belly, a handkerchief

clutched in her fingers. “Mind if I sit for a few? Baby’s feeling a little heavy today.” “Course not,” I tell her. I put a smile on my face because she looks so tired and worn. She’s due in about two weeks and she looks exhausted. This hasn’t been easy on any of us, but I know Boone’s takin’ things real hard because he feels like a father figure to all of us. Fuck, who am I kiddin’? We’re all wrecked. But I feel like I need to be lighthearted so Ivy doesn’t worry. “Junior there sittin’ on your bladder?” “Not Junior,” she tells me, as we launch into our familiar game. I take up the reins. “I’ve been thinkin’ you should go with somethin’ close to Boone’s name. Like Bud. Or Bo.” Ivy looks over at me and just gives me this sweet, content smile. “We decided on a name last night, you know. It’s going to be Seth.” She rubs a hand down the swell of her belly. “I think he’d like that.” “He’d fuckin’ love it,” I tell her hoarsely. My vision blurs and doubles. Fuck. I’m gonna bawl like a baby right in front of Ivy. Goddamn it, but I miss my little brother. I miss him so much. Wordlessly, Ivy offers me her handkerchief. I take it and blow my nose loudly. “Thanks.” As I do, Nat sails past, another dish in her hands. She’s talking animatedly to a couple that have come in,

showing them around the house. Distant cousins, I think, judging by their clothes. Or employees of PBO that worked on a rig with Seth. Dunno. There’s a strange mix at this wake—some of the folks are dressed in Armani suits and wearing gold jewelry. Some are just wearin’ their best Sunday shirt and jeans, ’cause that’s all they’ve got that’s proper. All that matters is they’re here to show respect, and I like that Nat treats ’em all like close personal friends of the family, even Seth’s stoner buddies that show up and huddle in the corner. “She’s been such a big help this week,” Ivy says in a soft voice. “She knows we’re struggling and she’s been doing whatever she can to help out. I’d have been lost without her.” She looks over and smiles at me weakly. “Wynonna wasn’t much help. Finals and all that.” I nod slowly. “She’s got a real soft heart. Hates seein’ us hurtin’.” “She’s wonderful, Clay.” “I know.” My sister-in-law reaches over and pats my hand. “Just making sure you do. I know you paid her to be your girlfriend, but I can tell that you care for her. You just make sure you tell her that at some point, okay? Girls like to be told that sort of thing. I know you boys all think it’s just implied, but it’s not.” I nod.

“I just don’t want you to let her get away.” Ivy rubs her hand slowly up and down her belly again. “Boone told me about the past, when you two broke up. You deserve happiness. Just don’t let it slip between your fingers.” She gives me a selfdeprecating little smile. “Look at me, lecturing you like I’m the great love expert or something. I just like her and I’d like a sister-in-law at some point. And I think she’s good for you.” I kinda think she’s good for me, too. “I’ll tell her. I promise.”

Natalie I’m exhausted after the wake. Hours after the guests have gone, I’m with the kitchen staff, cleaning up the endless piles of dishes. Ivy’s upstairs sleeping—she’s far too pregnant to be helping clean up. The brothers are all upstairs playing cards and sharing memories of Seth. He loved poker, Clay told me last night, and so they wanted to play a few hands in his honor after his funeral. I totally understand, and I’m keeping busy while Clay gets the grief out of his system. There’s a mounting list of chores to be done, and I’m used to cleaning until late, thanks to my one-woman show at Dad’s museum. So I find the vacuum in

Ivy’s enormous house and clean while the others occupy themselves with their grief. I’m not good with it, I don’t think. My mother died when I was young, and my father’s side of my family was pretty much dead and gone by the time I showed up. I’ve never had a big extended family, never had siblings. There’s been stepmothers, of course, but I didn’t cry when they left. I can’t imagine the grief that Clay is going through right now. So I do what I can to help out. I hate seeing him hurting so much. Every night, he doesn’t want to make love. He just pulls me close and holds me for hours on end. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t cry. Doesn’t get angry at the world that took his brother from him. But he needs my touch. Even when I wake up in the morning, he’s still wrapped around me, as if he’s terrified I’m going to leave him. But I’m not doing that. I’m never leaving my sweet Clay again. The other night was a wake-up call for me. I realized how easy it is for me to retreat into my hurt and just walk away when I’m upset. I can’t do that anymore. It cost me seven years of happiness and I’ll be damned if I’ll let it cost me seven more. When I’m unhappy, I need to communicate it better. And I’m going to have a long, long talk with Clay about shutting me out when he’s hurting.

Now’s not the time, though. It can all wait a few more days. I finish vacuuming and wrap up the cord. A moment later, an arm goes around my waist and Clay buries his face against my neck, inhaling deep. “All finished?” I ask softly. “For now. Played a million hands and shared stories about Seth. Still didn’t bring him back.” His words are unhappy and softly slurred. He’s had several beers, probably to try and drown his feelings. Poor thing. I turn and hug him close, wishing I could take away just a little of his pain. “Shall we go? Or do you want to stay here tonight?” He shakes his head. “We can go. Wanna be alone with you.” My heart starts racing at that. It’s been days since we’ve had sex, and I’m craving it, even though I know Clay hasn’t been in the mood. I understand it completely—but my body still hungers for his. Maybe tonight we’ll make love again. But Clay’s silent as the driver takes us back to the hotel. And when we get in bed that night, he holds me close and tucks me against him . . . and that’s it. He needs more time, then. I understand. I turn and hold him close, playing with his hair, and he falls asleep with his head on my breasts. In the morning, he’s gone bright and early.

Nat, Work today. More meetings. Sorry to bail. Sleep in, okay? CP My heart aches for him all over again. He’s clearly struggling. I want him to reach out to me, but I think he’s doing the best he can right now. He comes home late that evening and he’s distracted by a stream of constant texts from his brothers. I watch TV with him, but it’s clear he’s not paying attention, and it’s a quiet evening. In the morning, he leaves early again for more work business, and when I wake up, he murmurs something about trying to come home early to spend time with me and presses a kiss to my forehead. Then he’s gone. I watch him go and swallow my sigh. He’s still remote and I wish I knew how to reach him. I also wonder if I’m part of the problem. I’m here constantly, and he feels obligated to spend time with me, even though it’s clear that the brothers have pressing business matters that are eating up their time. I did some research on Price Brothers Oil while Clay was gone and was surprised to see that it’s an enormous company with thousands of employees. Clay’s never indicated that to me, but maybe it takes up far more time than he’s been giving it and it’s catching up with him?

I don’t want him to feel like he has to rush back to me. That I won’t understand if he works late. That I can’t comprehend what he’s going through, or that I’m going to be selfish and demand that he spend his time with me. I just want his happiness, and I want to alleviate some of the stress and emotional pain he’s going through right now. The next day, I decide I’ll visit my dad. It’ll get me out of Clay’s hair and let him have some alone time. Maybe that’s what he needs right now. I write him a quick note before I head out the door. Clay, I’m just getting in your way right now. Gone to Dad’s. Take your time. Nat

Clay Meetings this week have been an absolute beast. It’s been one thing after another. Seth didn’t leave a will—why would he; he was barely twenty-one— and so his shares have gone to next of kin, which are me and my brothers. Instead of sinkin’ it back into the company and just goin’ about our business, we’ve been discussin’ ways we can use the money

to honor the memory of our brother. We’re hashin’ out what we want to get done with the lawyers. Knox thinks scholarships are the way to go. Boone wants to set up pensions for the employees. Gage, well, Gage is just simmerin’ with rage about the entire thing and doesn’t have an answer. Me, I want to talk to Nat. See what she thinks. She’s always got a good way of lookin’ at things. Today, the ache of my brother’s death hurts a little less. Today, I can look at the last picture I have of him—tucked on the sun-visor in my truck —and not feel like I’ve been stabbed in the gut. I still have a yawning void in my heart where he used to be, but I’m startin’ to feel like I can survive now. Havin’ Natalie helps. This mornin’, I woke up to see her sweet, sleepy face and her lush curves tangled in the sheets, and it made it difficult to leave. Been thinkin’ all day about gettin’ back to her and peelin’ off her clothes and gettin’ her under me. Been far too long since I’ve been inside her. I think I was too numb before, but now the need for her is back with a vengeance, and my dick’s remindin’ me what it’s been missin’ out on. I promised Nat that I’d try to make it home early today, and I decide to make that promise a reality. I cut back on a few meetings— IntelligentCamo can wait a few more days, along with my plans for buyin’ land. Thinkin’ about building a house for me and Nat. Something

designed just how she wants it instead of movin’ into someone else’s old house. Somethin’ that’s perfect for both of us. I like the thought, and I like imaginin’ the way her eyes will light up when she realizes what I want to do. She loves them corny house shows on HGTV and the like. Can’t blame her. She’s lived under her dad’s thumb for all her adult life. I imagine havin’ a house all her own is somethin’ out of a dream for her. I wanna make that dream a reality. Show her how much I care. How much I want to make her happy. Show her that I’m not the selfish asshole that I seem. I can hardly wait to see her, and when I get out of the elevator that leads to our floor in the hotel, I practically sprint down the hallway toward our room. Maybe if I’m lucky, she’s still gonna be in bed, undressed and sexy. I can slide under the sheets and crawl between her thighs and kiss her sweet cunt for hours. She loves that. Every time I make her come by eating her out, she acts all surprised, like it’s a gift of some kind. Fuckin’ love that. Actually, I love everything about her. My dick’s hard by the time I get to the door, and it takes me a few moments of fumblin’ to get the keycard to unlock the door. When I do, I shut the door quietly so I don’t wake her, and sneak inside. Except . . . she ain’t in bed. I poke my head into the

bathroom, and she ain’t there, either. Confused, I pace through the room. Where’d she go? Then I see the note she left on the table. My heart starts to hammer at the sight of it. I pick it up slowly, dread creepin’ through my veins. Clay, I’m just getting in your way right now. Gone to Dad’s. Take your time. Nat In my way? In my fuckin’ way? Is she crazy? She’s the only thing that’s keeping me from losin’ my shit lately. When I’ve felt lost, she’s been right there to hold me close. When I felt overwhelmed with Seth’s funeral, she jumped right in and took care of things. She’s been at my side, loving and sweet and supportive and it’s been so fuckin’ appreciated and she thinks she’s in the goddamn way? My mouth goes dry. I . . . I’ve chased her away. Fuck. I know I haven’t been as affectionate since Seth died. I know it’s been a week since we’ve made love. I know she’s reached out to me and I’ve been remote. It’s just my way of dealin’. I thought she knew that I needed a little time in my head to sort through things—but what if she didn’t? What if she thought I was silently tryin’ to send her a message to go away?

What if I’ve lost her? The thought is like a gut-punch and I feel sick. I drop to a nearby chair, reading the note again. Take my time. Take my time? I don’t want time if it’s not with her. I don’t want my time. I want every second, every hour of her time. I can’t lose Nat. Not when I’ve just got her back. I fling myself out of the chair, grabbin’ my keys. No sedan today, no limo today—I don’t want to wait for them to get here. Time to take my truck. I race down to the elevator and when it doesn’t come fast enough, head for the stairs. If Nat’s gone, I’m gonna fuckin’ bring her back. If she thinks she’s not important to me, then it’s up to me to show her just how much she means to me. If it takes more money, I’ll spend it. If it takes grovelin’, I’ll do it. I just can’t imagine life without her at my side. Already I feel empty at the thought. I fucked up. I was hurtin’ and instead of reachin’ out to my girl, I pushed her away. Just like seven years ago, I didn’t talk to her. I pushed her away and now I’m gonna pay the price. I only hope it’s not too late.

Chapter Sixteen

Clay A man’s never driven so fast down the highway. I push the pedal in my truck down to the floorboards. Every minute that ticks past feels like another minute that might make things too late. It’s tearin’ me up inside that she thinks she’s in the way. That she’s leavin’ for my sake. Fuck all that. I’m a selfish enough bastard to admit that I want her at my side always. Her stayin’ is for my sake. Didn’t realize what a good thing I had when she came back to me, agreein’ to my stupid-ass contract and my ignorant demands. Fuckin’ anal. I demanded anal because I thought it was funny. Here she was havin’ to give up her pride and her dignity just so she could keep her dad off the streets, and I’m demandin’ her butthole because it soothes my pride. I’m such a goddamn bastard. I hate myself right now for what I’ve put her through. I don’t want to lose her. I can’t.

When I pull up to the Chap Weston Museum and Ranch, I growl to myself at the realization that it’s the grand reopening and the place is packed. There’s not a spot open in the newly expanded parking lot. I circle it twice, tapping impatiently on my steering wheel and hopin’ a slot will open up. When one doesn’t, I get tired of waitin’ and drive my truck onto the freshly landscaped grass and park it there. I’ll fuckin’ pay for the flowerbeds to be fixed. I don’t care. Right now I just want to see my Natalie. I slam out of the truck and up the path. There’s a short line waitin’ to get in, and I push ahead of them. Someone protests but no one stops me. Inside, the place is twice as crowded, and I push past two rooms crammed full of people before someone taps me on the shoulder. “You need to wait your turn, mister,” a woman with a baby under her arm and two kids behind her tells me, giving me her best mom glare. “I ain’t here for the tour,” I say, tryin’ to push past. A big man—probably her husband—moves in front of the doorway to the next room, blockin’ me. He crosses his arms over his chest. “You need to stop and think about what you’re doing, sir.” Fuck, enough with this. I’m normally the goodnatured Price brother, but right now, I’m about to

punch a man in the face. “And you need to move —” “What’s going on?” a woman asks in a bright, chipper voice. Suddenly there’s a pink cowboy hat at my side, and for a flash of a second, I think it’s Natalie. But it’s only the actress I hired to do the tour. She’s dressed similar to Natalie’s old costume, her hair in pigtails. “Oh, Mr. Price!” She beams at me. “Are you here for the grand opening?” “I’m looking for Natalie,” I tell her. “Natalie Weston.” “Oh!” She gestures past her. “I think she’s actually helping out in the gift shop right now—” I grab her by the shoulders and gently move her to the side. “That’s all I needed to know.” I step forward but the man’s still blocking my way, and I give him a deadly look. “It’s all right, sir,” the actress tells the man. “Mr. Price is the owner.” I don’t correct her. Ain’t got time for that shit. All I care about is that the man moves to the side and then I rush past him, frantically tearing through the crowded rooms and looking for the gift shop. I can’t be too late. I refuse to think it. If I can get her to hear me out, there’s still a chance for us. I burst into the gift shop, and to my frustration, it’s twice as crowded as any other room. People are grabbin’ up souvenirs like they’re goin’ out of fashion. The tiny cafe tucked in the corner has a

huge line, and I can hear the coffee machine’s frother goin’ a mile a minute. I look around desperately for Nat, but she’s dark-haired and short and doesn’t stick out in a crowd. Is she not here? Did I miss her? Or is she hidin’ from me? The thought wrenches my heart. If I’ve lost her— “A double mocha latte?” a familiar voice calls out, and as I look in that direction, I see a familiar arm holding up a coffee in a Chap Weston decorated disposable cup. “Double mocha latte? Who had it?” Nat. Thank god. I move forward, pushing people aside. There she is, lookin’ just as pretty as ever. Her hair’s down around her shoulders and curled slightly, and she has a pretty, pale pink dress on that makes her look all peaches and cream. Her lips part in surprise as I move forward and take the coffee out of her hand. “Hey, that’s mine,” someone says, protesting. I put the coffee down on the counter and take her hands in mine. Her mouth is open slightly and she stares in shock at me. “Clay?” Fuck. I’m just so glad to see her. She’s here. I caught her before she could walk out of my life again. The emotions I’ve been holding back for the last two weeks rush through me with staggering force, and I drop to my knees and bury my face in her skirts, my arms locked around her waist. “Don’t

ever leave me,” I tell her raggedly. “Never, ever again.” “Oh . . . honey,” she says softly, and her hand strokes my hair. “I wasn’t leaving. I just wanted to give you a little room to breathe.” “I don’t need room to breathe. I need you.” I look up at her. “You’re all I’ve ever needed.” The look on her face is beautiful to see. A tiny, understanding smile curves her pretty mouth and she strokes her fingers over my short beard. “I know it’s been a hard few days, Clay. I just didn’t want you to feel like you had to rush on my account. I know there’s a lot demanding your time right now—” I shake my head, because this last hour or two, when I thought I lost her again, has made things crystal clear to me. Nothing matters if I don’t have her. She makes me happy. “I love you, Natalie Weston.” Someone in the crowd “awwws.” Nat’s smile grows wider, radiant. “I love you, too, Clay Price. I always have. I’ve been waiting for you to say that, you know. I think I’ve always been waiting for you.” I get to my feet and cup her face, bending so I can give her a kiss. I claim her mouth with a fierce, possessive locking of lips, showing her just how damn much she means to me.

“This is a very sweet moment,” someone nearby says, “but can you guys do that somewhere away from the counter? I’m trying to make coffee here.” Nat pulls away, her eyes shining. “My bedroom’s upstairs, remember?” she whispers. “Say no more.” I lock my hands under Nat’s hips and lift her into my arms. She gives a little scream of surprise and flings her arms around my neck, pressin’ her tits near my face. Takes everythin’ I have not to plant a kiss on ’em, but there’s dozens of people watchin’ us right now. I push my way through the crowd, toward the back of the house where I remember the stairs are, my woman in my arms. It isn’t until we’re up the stairs that I set Natalie down. A glance toward the far end of the hall shows the double doors of Chap Weston’s rooms are closed, and I half wonder if my girl’s gonna head down there like she did last time, and talk to her daddy. I want to tackle her into bed, but I know the nurturer in her always wants to make sure that everyone’s doing okay, even her asshole old man. But she doesn’t even look in that direction today. She puts a finger to her lips and opens the door to her room, then tugs me inside. And . . . wow. I remember sneakin’ into Nat’s room once as a teenager, back when we were datin’ for the first time. I remember that everything was pink and white and girlish, like she was five years

old instead of sixteen. Now, seven years later, I’m a little startled to see that it hasn’t changed a bit. Nat still has a ruffled white canopy bed and pink walls. There’s a fluffy white throw rug on the floor, delicate white dressers, and a chest covered with worn stuffed animals off to one side. It still looks like the room of Shirley Temple instead of a grown woman. “Uh,” I say softly. “I know,” Nat says, and moves to my side. She buries her face against my chest. “It’s a hideous room. But my dad thought I was a little girl— emphasis on ‘little’—until I graduated. I was going to change it, but then there wasn’t time, and then when there was time, there wasn’t any money. So . . . yeah.” She slides her hands around my waist. “I hope it isn’t too much of a boner killer.” “Ain’t nothin’ that could kill the boner I have for you,” I admit. “Though this might be close.” She giggles, and the sound is so sweet and lovely that it makes me ache all over again. Just bein’ in her presence makes me hard. God, I love this woman. “Maybe just close your eyes,” she murmurs, and tucks her head against my chest again. “Nah. I’d miss out on gettin’ to look at you.” I smooth my hand down her silky hair. “I thought I’d lost you. Thought you were gone for good.”

“Absolutely not. Remember that our contract states that I’m at your disposal.” That fuckin’ contract. “I’m sorry I made you sign it. I shoulda came to you and just asked you out on a date, like a normal person.” Her hands smooth up and down my back, the soft motion both soothing and erotic all at once. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I don’t have my share of normal people in my life. I probably wouldn’t have understood the question.” I chuckle. “I wouldn’t have left you,” she tells me in a gentle voice. “Never. I’ve actually been scared for the last few weeks that you’re the one tired of me, and I’ve been wondering how I’m going to cope when you send me away again.” “You crazy?” I tighten my arms around her, wonderin’ how I’m gonna manage to get this dress off her without distractin’ her from her thoughts. “I’ve been in love with you all over again since you kissed me in the limo and let me know how mad you were about it.” “I’m glad you say that,” Nat admits with a sigh. “Because I’ve been in love with you all over again since the beginning, and I thought I was being too clingy.” “You were?” I frown. “You cried after we had sex.”

“Well, yeah,” she admits, and pokes my side. “You rather ungraciously pointed out that you’d paid me to have sex, and here I was all in love with you again, and it made me feel guilty.” I groan. I probably did say that. “I’m not real smooth with words, Nat. You might have noticed that.” “I might have,” she teases. “You might have also noticed that I tend to not ask questions, and then I get my feelings hurt without telling you how I truly feel.” “That did occur to me.” I rub a hand up and down her back. “So basically what I’m hearin’ is that we’re both shit at communicatin’.” “I believe that to be an accurate statement, yes.” “Maybe we should work on that,” I tell her. I glance around her room and spot a pen on the dresser beside her bed. Pressing a kiss atop her head, I pull away from her arms and pick it up. I sit on the edge of the bed, and when she moves to stand closer to me, I take her hand in mine. “I don’t know if you noticed, but for a while, I was writin’ things on my hand so I wouldn’t forget how to act.” “I remember,” she tells me. “I saw a S and a R. I wondered what they were for.” “The R was for ‘ruthless’ because I decided I was gonna be ruthless about gettin’ you in my bed. And the S was for ‘scoundrel,’ because Knox

suggested I be one. Said that I should be mean and not care about your feelings in this contract I made you sign. That I was gonna use you to get what I wanted and not care somehow.” I shake my head. “Shitty advice.” “Maybe you don’t ask your single brother for advice about women,” Nat teases, smiling. I nod. “Thing is, I couldn’t be mean to you. You’ve always just been so sweet and perfect and exactly what I wanted, and every time I tried to be ruthless, it never worked out. I ain’t cut out to be a scoundrel.” I take the pen and draw a tiny heart on her knuckle. “All I know how to do is be in love with you.” “That’s not such a terrible thing,” she tells me breathlessly. “So do I get to write a message on your hand?” I hand her the pen. “Go for it.” She takes my fist in her hand and begins to delicately write something. It’s just a few lines, and when she releases me, I’m a little surprised to see an E there. “E?” “Because you’re my everything,” she admits softly. “And you need to remember that.” I groan. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I take the pen from her hand and put it back down on the dresser, then pull her close. “I love you, Nat.”

“I love you, too, Clay.” Her smile is happy, gentle. I lean in and give her a light kiss. “Way I see it, you’ve got two choices.” “Oh?” “You can let me fuck you hard and dirty here on your bed, but you’ve got to be quiet,” I tell her, and slide a hand up her skirt to cup her ass. “Or we can go out to my car, drive down the road about a mile and pull over, and then I can fuck you hard and dirty there and hope the cops don’t stop to pay a visit.” “Mmm. Choices, choices.” She shifts her weight, and her ass brushes against my hand. Little tease. “I think I’m going to go with the bed in here. It looks like it needs a little dirtying up, don’t you think?” I like the way she thinks. “You sure you’re gonna be able to stay quiet?” “If not, you’ll just have to shove something in my mouth, won’t you?” Her eyes gleam. I pull her forward and bury my face against her tits again, stifling my groan. “You are the naughtiest thing ever, Natalie Weston. I love that about you.” “You love everything about me,” she says lightly, a slight wobble in her voice. “I do,” I tell her. “Don’t you ever think I don’t. I loved you from the moment I saw you. I loved you even when I thought you hated me. I loved you

then and I love you now. Don’t think I know how to not love you.” “I love you, too,” she whispers. “So, so much.” I pull her down next to me. “Then you ain’t gonna mind if I pull this skirt of yours up and testdrive my new beard? It’s grown in quite a bit.” She shivers. “Let’s check things out, shall we?” Her hand goes to my jaw, and she feels it, pretending to consider the length. “It seems acceptable,” she tells me after a moment. “Maybe not as good as before, but acceptable.” “That just means my tongue will have to work a little harder,” I tell her, and get to my feet. My cock’s already respondin’ to this playful talk between us, hard and pressin’ against the front of my jeans. I ignore it, though. Not when I’ve got Nat ready to let me go down on her in this fluffy monstrosity of a bed. I ain’t gettin’ my nut until she’s come at least once. I wanna see if she can be as quiet as she thinks she can, because, from my experience? Nat don’t know how to be quiet when she’s in bed. Which is . . . pretty damn fun. I wanna break that control she thinks she has, too. So when she beams up at me, all gorgeous and soft, I lean and give her a quick kiss and then say, “Get on your hands and knees.” Her cheeks flush immediately, which is just the prettiest damn thing. “What?”

“Hands and knees,” I repeat, grinning. “But I thought we were going to—” “Oh, we are. Trust me on that.” She bites her lip and her face seems to be an even brighter red. “From behind?” she asks, scandalized. “Absolutely. You chicken?” “Of you having your face in my privates? No. Don’t be silly.” But she can’t quite keep her bluster together. She gets to her feet, smooths her skirts, and then climbs on the bed on hands and knees, and looks over her shoulder at me. “Now, remember,” I drawl. “Gotta stay quiet. Don’t wanna be found out.” “I know!” I grab the hem of her skirt and begin to slowly drag it up her thighs. She shivers, and I can tell she’s got gooseflesh. She’s practically trembling with anticipation. I am the luckiest son of a bitch ever to have this woman. Humbled by that realization, I vow that she’s gonna get two orgasms from me goin’ down on her, not just one. She deserves a hundred, but I suspect she’ll be squirmin’ off the bed by the time I get two out of her. I carefully lift her skirt all the way up and blow a bit of air on the backs of her creamy thighs. She squirms, sucking in a breath as I do, and I can practically see her pussy clench through her tiny

little panties. They’re a pale, cream-colored satin, the edges decorated with a bit of lace, and they’re just like her—elegant, ladylike, and still sexy. They’re also comin’ off right away. I hook a finger in the fabric and slowly drag them over the curves of her ass, revealing her pale skin. She shifts as I do, and it’s almost like her pretty ass is wigglin’ at the thought of me tonguin’ her from this angle. Inch by inch, I drag the panties down, and then her pussy is exposed, all pink folds and skin gleaming with a hint of arousal. Nat makes a little sighing noise when I pull the panties down her thighs. “Shhh,” I remind her. “You’re supposed to be quiet.” “I am,” she whispers. “And should I take my shoes off?” She taps one foot against my leg. “Nope,” I tell her. “All I need are these panties gone. You can keep the rest on while I fuck your pussy with my tongue.” She bites back a low little moan and sinks down on her elbows. “God, Clay,” she breathes. “You’re filthy.” I am. She likes that, though. I can tell. She’s already wet just at the thought of my tastin’ her, and I haven’t even put my mouth anywhere near her yet. I move off the bed from where I’m kneeling behind her, just so we can remove her panties off

both her legs. I pull them off and then hand them to her. “Keep those safe for me.” She lowers her head to the blankets and gives a little muffled groan. “Quiet, quiet,” I remind in a low voice, even as I trace one finger up the inside of her thigh. She’s trembling, and when I finally get my finger on its slow journey up to her cleft, I touch her ever so lightly, moving back and forth against the seam of her cunt. “I want you to be fuckin’ soaked when I put my mouth on you, baby,” I tell her. “Get that pussy sopping wet for me so I can lick up all those juices.” She shudders and snatches a pillow from near the headboard, holding it against her face to muffle her heavy breathing. “Spread your legs for me, I think,” I tell her, rubbing my finger back and forth over her folds. “Nice and wide.” Nat shivers again and her hips jerk, almost as if she’s tryin’ to clench around my cock. Fuck, I love that. I’m dyin’ to push my fingers into her and fuck her with my hand, but I’m gonna drag this out. I want her to lose control, and the added torture of tryin’ to be quiet is just part of the game. It’s clear she’s enjoyin’ this, because she’s so wet the insides of her thighs are gleaming with moisture. I want to lick it all up.

Hell, maybe I will. Maybe I should lie on my back and let her sit on my face for a bit. The mental image is enough to make my sac tighten, as if I’m ready to come, too. And when she obediently parts her legs wide, revealing her pink folds? It’s too much to resist. “Scoot up a bit on the bed.” “What?” She glances back at me, her face flushed and her hair tousled. Her eyes are glazed with need and I’ve barely even touched her. “Scoot up.” I give her plump ass a light slap and then rub the spot. “Enough so I can lie back on the bed.” Confused, she crawls forward a foot or two, and then looks back at me. “What are you going to do?” “Never you mind,” I tell her. “You’ll find out in a minute.” I press kisses to the curves of her delicious bottom, drawing out the tension a little. Then, when she’s good and squirming again, I lie back on the bed and shimmy up until her knees are on my shoulders, and I’ve got the prettiest sight a man ever saw—Natalie Weston’s cunt spread inches from my face. Perfection. I slide my hands up and down her thighs, rubbing them. “Lower that sweet pussy a little, baby.” Nat sucks in a breath, and then moans into her pillow when she realizes what I mean. “Clay, you

want me to—” “Hell yeah I do.” Since she ain’t movin’ right away, I reach up and drag a finger up and down her folds, coating it with her juices, and then bring it to my mouth. “You taste so fuckin’ good, baby.” She bites back her whimper, and then her ass wiggles just a little, and her hips ease down a fraction. “My skirt,” she breathes. Don’t care about her skirt. All I care about is getting my mouth on her pussy. I tuck the fabric of her skirt behind my head and give a little tug on her thighs. “Lower, babe.” Nat moans, but she does as I ask, spreading her thighs wider so she can move her body down toward my face. Then, she’s there, a mere inch from my mouth, and the musk of her is fillin’ my nose with her scent. I love this. Love the way she smells, the way she tastes, even love the pretty, flushed folds of her cunt and the dark curls that surround it. I lift my head, eager to have a taste, and drag my tongue up the seam of her body. I can feel the tremble that rocks through her, can feel her thighs clench in response. “More?” I ask, panting. If she says no, I might fling her down on the bed and take what I want anyhow, I’m that far gone with need. Lick her until that shy “no” becomes the “yes” she secretly wants it to be.

“God, yes,” she breathes. Then I’m the one groaning. I drag my tongue over her sweetness again, exploring her with tongue and lips, lapping up every bit of her arousal. Each stroke of my tongue over her folds makes her move a little, her hips shifting, and I know she’s trying to subconsciously steer me toward her clit, where she gets the greatest amount of pleasure. I’m going to get there, though. I’m just going to take a little more time doing so. I want her beside herself with need by the time I finally touch it. So I continue to kiss and explore her folds, dipping my tongue into the well of her core just once. I map her out with my lips, learning her body and steaming the insides of her thighs with my hot breath. All the while, she quietly wriggles atop of me, a mixture of impatience and desire. I stroke my fingers up and down the backs of her thighs, adding to my teasing. I’m giving her all kinds of touches, but not the ones that will bring her off, and she knows it. Her movements become more impatient. “Clay,” she pants. “Damn it, you’re not playing fair.” “What’s fair?” I ask between long, slow licks of her folds. Not the juicy bits hiding in them, just the outside. Just enough to make her crazy with unsatisfied lust. “Not this!”

“Then how should I touch you?” “Deep,” she begs me. “So deep.” I can’t refuse. Not when she begs so beautifully. I push my face deeper into her folds, seeking out her clit with my tongue. I find the small bump and begin to circle it, just how she likes, and her little noises of delight grow louder by the moment. When I suck lightly on it, her hips buck against my face and she makes a choking sound. “Not so noisy,” I chastise her, and slip a finger between her thighs, seeking out her core. “Or I can’t give you more.” Her moan is almost inaudible, and she pushes the pillow against her face once more, seeking to stifle her sounds. I love it, though. I love how wild she gets when I touch her, how my reserved, lovely Natalie turns into a fierce, needy creature between the sheets. I suck on her clit again, and push a finger into her core. She inhales so deeply it almost sounds like a bull snorting, and I chuckle before licking her again. “Not funny,” she grits out in a low whisper. “You’re a torturer.” Am I? I’ll just have to torture her harder, then. I push a second finger into her heat, and her cunt immediately clasps tight around them, and I can feel her thighs quiver. She wants more. I thrust into her even as I return to licking her clit, and she

immediately moans. Her cunt tightens around my fingers again, and I know she’s close. I curl one of my fingers forward, seeking the little rough patch that I’ve read online should be there. Nat nearly comes off the bed. This time, her moan isn’t muffled by a pillow, and it echoes through the quiet room, overloud. And fuck, I love it. My dick jerks in my pants, and I have to force myself to remain in control. “You gotta quiet down, baby,” I whisper. “Don’t want anyone to come in and see me with my face buried in this sweet pussy—” Nat gives another choked moan, and then she’s coming, her cunt tightening reflexively around my fingers over and over again. I don’t want to stop, though. I want her to keep coming. I want her to come so hard that she tears up the bed, so I keep thrusting into her, my finger curved to find that Gspot on her walls, and I keep sucking and working her clit. “Clay,” she whines, panting. “I can’t— I need — Oh—oh!” She comes again, a scream muffled into her pillow. This time, when she comes, I feel a surge of wetness from between her thighs, and my tongue is coated with it. I feel an incredible sense of accomplishment. I think I just made my girl squirt. Hot damn, if that doesn’t make a man feel like a fucking king.

Her movements slow over me, and the constant quivering of her hips turns slow and languid as her orgasms begin to ebb. She tries to crawl off of me, to get away from my insistent mouth, but I lock an arm around her thigh and hold her in place, continuing to fuck her with both tongue and fingers. When she comes again, I have mercy on her and let her flop onto her back next to me. Cool air rushes over my face and I wipe the taste of her from my lips and beard, satisfied that she’s been well-pleasured but aching for my own release. I glance over and her face is flushed bright red, her eyes glazed, her hair a disheveled mess. Her mouth is swollen and the pillow next to her is wet in one corner from where she’s been biting down. She looks so completely pleasured and fucked good, and my cock hasn’t even been inside her yet. “I love you,” she says weakly. “If I didn’t love you before, god, I’d sure love you after that.” I can’t help but grin, and I get to my feet, undoing the buckle on my belt before sliding it to the floor. I want to feel her skin against mine. Want to touch her and feel her body clasp around mine. “Want me to go another round between those pretty thighs?” I ask, using one hand to strip my jeans off, and the other to smooth up her leg. Can’t help touching her. It’s like an addiction. Her hands slide down her skirts to her pussy and she cups it, shielding it from my touch. “Think I’d

rather have you inside me,” she says softly. “I feel so hollow right now, and I need to be filled up.” I groan at the sound of that. I strip off the rest of my clothes faster than I ever thought I could get undressed, and then I’m back on her girly bed, between her thighs. Her skirts are hiked up at her hips, her legs splayed wide, and I grab one knee and lead her leg to my hip. She immediately hooks it around me, pulling me down to her. “Clay,” she breathes. “My sweet Clay.” I cover her body with mine and lean in to kiss her, light and gentle. Her lips are soft and taste so good, and what should have been one quick kiss turns into long minutes of nothing more than kissing, over and over again, my mouth caressing hers. “Feels good to know I have all the time in the world to claim you.” Her smile is shy. “Forever, if you want.” “That’ll do for starters.” I reach between us and rub the head of my cock up and down her folds, slicking it with her juices. Her arms go around my neck and she shifts her hips, moving against my cock. “You want me to go on the pill now? I want you inside me with no condom. I want to feel all of you.” I’m surprised to hear my own wants and needs echoed by her. Just reinforces the fact that we’ve always been perfect for each other, and it’s only

our own stubbornness that’s been keeping us apart all this time. “I want to be inside you like that,” I admit, and then take it one step further. “But I don’t want you on the pill.” “You don’t?” I shake my head. “I want you to have my baby. I want a family together. Can’t have that if you’re on the pill. Maybe it’s a crazy thought, but the thought of fillin’ you up with my cum makes me feel this primal sort of . . . pleasure.” Her lips part. “It does?” Oh fuck yeah, it does. The thought of her takin’ everything I have to give her? “More than you can ever know.” “And you want a baby?” Her eyes shimmer with a hint of tears. “With me?” I chuckle. “Well, I don’t want one with anyone else.” She slaps my shoulder at my poor joke, but her smile is huge. “A family is a big step.” “I’m ready. I’ve waited seven years for you, Natalie Weston. I’m ready to start our lives together.” “Me too,” she says softly. “Oh, Clay.” I drag my cock head up and down her wetness again. “And it ain’t just a ploy to get inside you bareback.” She giggles, but her laughter turns into a gasp when I sink inside her.

And . . . fuck, that feels like the most amazing thing ever, being in her without a barrier. She’s hotter and wetter than I ever imagined. I feel every tremor that moves through her body. “I want you to come again for me, Nat. While I’m inside you like this.” She moans. Her hips rise and she gives me a little nod. I take her hand and press it back on the mattress. I’m covering her and I can look her in the eye like this. Maybe at some point we’ll try a buncha different positions, but there’s nothin’ I love more than gazin’ down at Nat while I fuck her. I start with hard, sure strokes, and without the condom on, my dick feels ten times more sensitive. I can feel everything. Everything. This time, I’m the one groaning and struggling for control as I push into her. “Pillow under my hips,” Nat pants, and grabs at a pillow above her head, then pushes it toward me. I grunt and lift our joined bodies up. She knows hers better than I do, and she knows what she needs. I stuff it under her plush bottom and then thrust into her again. “Better?” Her moan and the way she digs her nails into my shoulders tells me everything I need to know. I rock into her, harder and faster, the friction between us making the pleasure intensify. When

Nat’s cunt starts to tighten around me again, I have to pause and regain my control. “No,” she pants, squeezing her hand into a fist against my shoulder. “Keep going. I’m so close.” And I’m far too close. But her urgency fuels mine, and I thrust into her, leaning in to capture her mouth with mine. Just a few more strokes, I tell myself. Hold out for a few more so she can come and then— She cries out underneath me, and I swallow her cry with my kiss. Her cunt tightens around my cock and it’s like she’s squeezing it with her fist, it’s so tight, and— And then I’m coming, too. My control is gone and I surge into her, filling her with my seed and giving her everything I’ve got, heart, body, and soul. I’ve never come so hard. Minutes pass and my breathing begins to slowly return to normal. I’m vaguely aware of my naked, sweaty body atop her, and she’s still wearing her pretty dress that we’ve now thoroughly wrecked. Her virginal bed’s pretty trashed, too. I press a kiss to her damp brow before sliding to one side so I don’t crush her. “I love you, Nat.” “Love you, too,” she murmurs sleepily. I hold her against me, tucking her against me, my cock still buried inside her. We’re both sticky from the release but I don’t feel like moving. I just wanna lie here with her, forever.

Well, except that there’s a big wet spot in the bed. “You might wanna wash these sheets.” “Probably burn ’em,” she says with a yawn. “Hide the evidence.” “Why hide?” I ask, wrapping a possessive arm around her and restin’ it on one big, bouncy tit. “Your dad’s eventually gonna have to find out we’re together.” “Mmm, good point. I didn’t think about that.” She peers over her shoulder at me, all soft and sated. “So what happens now between us?” I think for a minute. “A new contract.” Her brows go down. “Another contract?” I nod and rest my chin on her shoulder, tucking my face next to hers. “A marriage one.” “Oh.” Her voice goes soft. “Okay, yeah, that sounds good. Are you sure?” “Never been more sure of anything in my life.” It’s true, too.

Epilogue Four Months Later

Natalie My phone buzzes with a text message, waking me from a nap. I rub my eyes and scramble for my phone, only to knock it off the couch and on the floor. Shoot. That’s what I get for falling asleep in the living room. I haul myself off the sofa and pad across the newly laid tile, yawning as I scoop it up. I immediately feel queasy as I bend over, and retreat back to the couch. Ugh. Morning sickness could go away any day now. I lie back down and close my eyes, sweating and swallowing hard, waiting for the sensation to pass. Eventually it does, and I squeeze one eye open to peer at my phone. IVY: The mailman delivered to the wrong house again. I just got a big box with skulls on it that’s addressed to Lexi.

IVY: I’d get in the car and bring it over but Seth finally just went down for his nap. I text her back, not quite ready to get up off my sofa myself. NAT: I’m still flattened by the barfs, so let’s text Lexi and let her know it went to your house, k? IVY: Thx. I’ll leave it on the front porch if she’s coming by soon. Tell her not to ring the doorbell bc baby sleeping. :) NAT: Will do. IVY: I’m sorry your stomach’s so bad. Ginger tea did wonders for me! NAT: I’ll send Clay out to get some later! TY! I sigh at my phone and rub my still-flat stomach. I’ve been pregnant for all of two months so far, I think, and I’m already pretty done with it. Ivy was a glowing beauty all through her pregnancy, I’ve been told by multiple sources. Me, I’ve already got swollen ankles, bad skin, and I’ve thrown up enough to lose five pounds . . . which makes no sense, because I’ve gained ten. I can tell I’m going to be one of those people that suffers all through pregnancy. Fun times.

I text Clay first, because, well, I always text Clay first. I’m just as ridiculously silly in love with the man now as I am the day he walked back into my life. We’re joined at the hip, morning, noon, and night. I wake up in his arms and we snuggle for a few minutes before Clay gets up and heads out for work. Usually we have lunch together, and I’ve accompanied him out to the rig sites when he has to make a visit. I’ve watched him and Boone dowse for wells, though he says he doesn’t have the magic touch that Boone does. And when he comes home, we normally end up on the couch, either watching TV, playing video games (I’m trying desperately to get good at the football games he loves), or making love. You’d think we’d get sick of being around each other all the time, but if anything, it’s the opposite. I crave him even more with every passing day. I’ve never been so damn happy. Or so damn lonely when he’s gone. Right now, he’s overseeing the production of the first round of IntelligentCamo prototypes. He’s made plans with a local base to discuss the possibility of it helping the troops and he’s talked about donating all of them instead of charging for them. Seth’s death changed more than a few things in the Price brothers. I know that before, Clay was interested in selling the IntelligentCamo to the families of troops, but now he’s talking about setting up a foundation and donating thousands of

suits of it. He says if it can save a few lives, he’s willing to shell out the money. I think that’s sweet—my man has an altruistic side. I love that. He should be home at a regular time tonight, though, so I send him a little love note. NAT: <3 <3 Hey baby, can you pick up some ginger tea on the way home tonight? CLAY: Hey love CLAY: Your stomach bothering you? NAT: Yeah—Ivy says ginger tea is good for the sickness. CLAY: I’m on it. Love you. NAT: Love ya too, babe. I smile as I switch to Lexi’s number and send her a text. NAT: You awake? There’s no response from Lexi’s phone. Figures. It’s still fairly early in the morning . . . though Lexi is normally an early riser. She likes to joke that she’s been up all night summoning hordes of evil minions, but it’s all a front. Lexi is one of those people that likes to wake up early and face the day. I’ll just have to go over and see what the deal is. It takes me a few minutes to get the courage to roll off the couch. I eventually get to my feet and

test things, but my stomach seems to have settled for the moment. Good. I pad across the floor of our new house, kicking aside plastic sheeting as I walk. Clay wanted to build a new house for me, and said he wanted me to make it my dream house. We got quotes on houses, though, and to build what we wanted was going to take at least a year and a hell of a lot of money. And while the money isn’t the problem, I got pregnant, and came to the realization that I didn’t want my baby to be born in Clay’s trailer or while I was living at a hotel. Living at the Weston Ranch was completely out of the question, too. So we bought a house. Specifically, we bought a house down the street from Ivy and Boone. Well, it’s not exactly “down” the street because they have a massive ranch, and now we have a slightly less massive ranch, but we’re on the same block. Our house is old and outdated, with popcorn ceilings and wood paneling everywhere, so while I’m “between” jobs and pregnant, I’ve decided to renovate. And by renovate, I mean I tear rooms up and then call people in to fix up my messes. I’m not much of a painter, alas, but a real one’s coming tomorrow. I head to the master bedroom, slide on my shoes, and then grab the keys and head out of the house, down the walkway, and toward Lexi’s bungalow. The property we picked came with a

cottage joined to the sprawling main house by a little pathway in the backyard, so I offered for Lexi to move in. Her yoga business has been failing and failing hard back in Luka. The town’s too small— and Lexi’s too weird—for it to work. She’s now doing home visits and trying to set up a web presence, but she’s been rather distracted lately to get much done. I know that feeling. It seems like life seems to hit all at once sometimes. It’s been the same for me. Dad had another fall not long after Clay and I got married, and at the suggestions of his nurses, we moved Dad to a home in San Antonio. It’s one of the most expensive ones available, and he’s got a massive suite all to himself. There’s care-staff that can look after him night and day. More importantly, there are no stairs for him to fall down. I thought he’d hate it, but to my surprise, he actually loves the home. It seems that there are a lot of fans of his movies, and he’s treated like the celebrity he is every time he leaves his room. They even have Chap Weston movie nights on a regular basis, and my dad’s the center of attention when they do. He loves that. I visited yesterday and it was like my dad was constantly holding court, signing autographs, flirting with the ladies, and charming the nurses. I haven’t seen him so happy in years. It took a lot of the stress off of me to realize that he needed real company, not just a nursemaid.

Dad’s not thrilled I’m with Clay. Not at all. But most days he doesn’t even remember who Clay is, so I try not to let it bother me. I’m not going to let Dad’s misery control my life. Not any longer. At the end of the day, he’s just a sad, elderly old man who spent more time unhappy than anyone should, and I’m not going to let that happen to me. Sometimes he’ll call and gripe at me for making poor life choices, but most times Dad lives in his own little world. I don’t bring Clay up, and Clay has no interest in seeing Dad. Works for me. Since I married Clay and we now live closer to San Antonio, the Chap Weston Museum is now run by a few employees, and Clay and I head out there every now and then to check on things. It doesn’t make a ton of money, but it’s important to my dad —and to me, oddly enough—that it not fail, so on it goes. As long as it’s in the black, I don’t feel guilty about it. Clay wouldn’t care if it was a money pit; he just wants me to be happy. I get to the door of Lexi’s little cottage and I can hear her weird yoga music playing in one of the back rooms. I knock, but there’s no answer, so I try peeking into one of the windows. They’re all closed, though. Hmm. I debate texting her again, when my gut decides to revolt and another wave of nausea hits. Uh-oh. I glance back up at the main

house, but it’s a good walk back up the steps, and I suspect I won’t make it in time. So I try Lexi’s doorknob. It’s unlocked, thank goodness, so I let myself in, racing toward the bathroom down the hall. I make it to the toilet just in time to puke my guts out. There’s not much left in my stomach, so I end up just dry heaving against the porcelain bowl for a while, and then grab the nearest towel to wipe my face, whimpering. “Uh, dude? You okay?” I turn around to see Lexi in a towel—and nothing else—standing in the doorway behind me. Her dark hair is disheveled and she looks sweaty. “Sorry,” I say weakly. “I wasn’t trying to let myself in but my stomach kinda had ideas of its own.” “Should I call 9-1-1?” Her voice is deadpan, but she moves to the edge of the tub and offers me a fresh towel. “Very funny,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ll be okay. I just need a moment. Did I catch you before you were about to get in the shower?” “That would be kind of difficult, seeing as I’m sitting on the edge of the shower,” Lexi says, amused. “You did catch me at a bad time, though.” “You have a package—” I begin, and then stop, because when I lift my head, I can see right into Lexi’s bedroom. There’s a naked ass in her bed. A very white, naked ass, and the owner of it is

facedown in the covers. For a moment, my heart stops. But then the man sits up, and I see that it’s Knox. Ew. I just saw my brother-in-law’s naked ass. In my best friend’s bed. I shoot Lexi a look of horror. “What—” “It’s not what it looks like,” she begins, and then tilts her head. “Actually, no, it’s exactly what it looks like.” * * * I’m back home a very short time later, still a little unnerved at finding out that Lexi and Knox are sleeping together. I collapse on the sofa in the living room—or what will eventually be the living room— and close my eyes, trying not to get another visual of my weird friend and my weird brother-in-law having sex. No sooner do I lie down than the front door opens. “Babe?” Clay bellows. “In the living room,” I call out, struggling to sit up. He appears a moment later, a gorgeous view for any woman. I drink up the sight of him—his nowthick beard, his slightly too-long dark hair, his laughing green eyes, his broad shoulders and amazing, taut body. I sigh. In addition to a raging case of sour stomach, I also have an incredible

libido, which is a terrible pairing. I get turned on at the drop of a hat, and then my gut shuts that idea down promptly. It’s kinda hellish. “Don’t get up, baby,” Clay says, coming to kneel by the couch. He brushes a lock of hair off my forehead tenderly. “You okay?” “Same as usual,” I tell him. “Thrown up twice so far today, but the good news is that there isn’t much left in my stomach.” I grimace. “And you’ll never guess what I saw today.” “Save it,” he says, and rubs his knuckles lightly over my cheek. “You lie down and I’m gonna make you some tea.” “Why are you home so early?” I ask. He shrugs those big, delicious shoulders and just that simple movement gets me hot and bothered. “My baby needed ginger tea. So I came.” “Yes, but I could have waited—” He shakes his head at me. “My baby needed ginger tea,” he states firmly. “Now close your eyes.” “You big overbearing dweeb,” I tell him affectionately, but I do as he says. I always do as Clay says. It’s impossible to argue with him, because he never believes he’s wrong. It’s cute. I wake up a short time later to find Clay sitting on the far end of the couch, and he’s got my feet in his lap. He’s texting someone quietly on his phone

with one hand and rubbing my ankles with the other. I yawn. “Did I sleep long?” “‘Bout an hour,” he tells me, and his thumb strokes my foot. “How you feeling?” “I’m okay.” “I’m gonna get you that tea now. You stay put.” I sit up as Clay leaves the room, watching his tight butt flex in his even tighter jeans. Lord have mercy, but I hope my stomach holds up for a few hours, because I’m feeling really turned on at the moment. My husband returns a moment later, a steaming cup of tea in his hands. He gives it to me and watches me closely as I sip it. He’s attentive and possessive normally, but now that I’m pregnant? That’s ratcheted up to eleven and Clay’s worse than a mama bear . . . and I have to admit, I eat it up. Every single moment of it. “Better?” Clay asks. The tea tastes terrible, but I don’t want him to worry. He already worries about me too much, and we’re only in month two. I smile and tell a tiny fib. “Much.” He sits back down at the far end of the couch and puts my feet back in his lap. I resist the urge to rub his cock with my feet. My goodness, I’m feeling frisky. It’s got to be my big, delicious husband doting on me that’s got me so revved up. “I can’t believe you’re home so early.”

He shrugs, a smile on his lips. “Missed you and my baby.” And that does it. This man is going to get laid. Right here, right now. I carefully set my mug of tea down on the table next to the couch, and then fling myself into Clay’s embrace. His eyes widen when my arms go around his neck. “Babe?” “I’m feeling a little . . .” I trail a finger down the front of his shirt. “Amorous.” His eyes go smoky at the thought. “And your stomach?” “Don’t care about my stomach,” I tell him in my best, most sultry voice. “At least, not right now. Other parts of me are aching.” “Allow me to help, then, Mrs. Price.” He pulls me into his lap, dragging my skirt up. I run my fingers through his gorgeous, full beard and shift my hips, rubbing against his cock. I love days like today. Actually, I love every day now that I’m with Clay. Everything seems bright and full of promise now that we’re together. And as he grabs the crotch of my panties and pulls them aside in a move that makes me breathless, it makes me think there’s no way I could be happier. Clay’s my life, and I was just going through the motions without him. I lean in and brush my mouth against his, lost in his touch.

There’ll be plenty of time later to tell him about his brother and Lexi. For now, I’ve got other thoughts on my mind. Things like . . . seducing my husband.

Meet the Roughneck Billionaires . . . Southern Texas heats up when four roughneck brothers set their sights on love . . .

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