Diary of a Bad Boy(60)
“Motherfucker,” he yells, kicking it and then wiping his brow with his forearm.
The heat from the sun is relentless today, especially for a guy who’s not used to it, and thanks to my dad’s demands, the ranch hands are not letting up on him.
“Come on, lad,” one of the guys says. “Are those pretty muscles or do they actually work?”
I’m sure they work, there is no doubt in my mind, but Roark’s barely regained his coordination and is struggling.
Sweat is dripping down every part of his shirt, there is dirt caked on his face, and his jeans are an ashy brown rather than crisp black from the amount of times he’s stumbled his way through chores. There is only one thing left, feeding the horses, but he’s obviously done for the day.
“Fuck you,” Roark mutters as he reaches for the hay bale again.
I walk past him, a bale in my grasp, and chuck it into the truck, using just the right swing to get it up and over the hatch. Roark watches me.
I point to his bale. “Want me to do that for you?”
His eyes narrow. “No. I got it.”
“You sure? Seems like you’re struggling a little.”
“I’m not struggling. I’m just, fuck.” He wipes his forehead again. “I think I’m actually hungover, for one of the first times in my life.”
I pat his shoulder as if we’re pals, rather than two people who find one another attractive but can’t quite figure out how to make it work between them. “That’s what happens when you drink: hangovers follow.”
I haven’t had a hard day on the ranch in a long time because of school and trying to make my career happen, but today felt good. I know, weird right, to be happy about doing physical labor, but it’s what I grew up with. During football season, I would go back and forth to New York to visit with Dad, but my true home was Texas, and Dad was very adamant about me carrying my weight around the ranch.
If he heard I wasn’t doing my chores, he’d fly from New York to lecture me, only to fly back for practice the next day. I learned quickly he hated that, and the tongue lashing I got would be proof of it, so I made sure I pulled my weight.
And I learned to appreciate it. Maybe not right away, because what teenager wants to be shoveling horse crap on the weekend? But over time, I understood why Dad was strict with me. He wanted me to realize the benefit of hard work, both academic and physical. I confidently believe I earned my position with Gaining Goals, and I’m proud of myself.
Letting the water run down my sore muscles for a few more seconds, I breathe in the steam billowing below and let out a long breath. What a day.
What a wonderfully long and rewarding day.
I switch off the shower, dry off, and then wrap the towel around my body, stuffing the end between my breasts to keep the towel in place. I brush out my long, wet hair, moisturize my face, and put a touch of lavender behind my ears and on my wrists.
Satisfied, I open the bathroom door and walk down the hallway toward my room where I see Roark leaning against his door, his eyes shut, a towel dangling from his hand. When he hears me approach, he stands up and looks in my direction. Immediately his eyes start to rake over my body, and from the burning look Roark has on his face, I’m very happy I decided to leave my clothes in my room.
“Shower is all yours.”
He scratches his beard, eyes still trained on me. “Thanks.”
I pause in front of him, letting him take a longer look while the lavender scent I know drives him crazy floats between us. “Do you need help turning the shower on? I can show you how it works.”
“I, uh . . . I think I can handle it.”
I press my hand against his chest, innocently batting my lashes up at him. “Are you sure?”
His eyes fall to my hand then back up to me. “Yeah.”
I pat his chest and walk over to my door. Looking over my shoulder, I say, “Well, I’m just across the way. You know where to find me.”
I begin to walk into my room when Roark says, “Hold on.”
Hand still on the door, I turn toward him. “Yeah?”
“Can we talk?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary.” I smile brightly. “We don’t really have anything to talk about.”
“Bullshit,” he growls. I’m taking it he doesn’t like how nice and sweet I’m being. My dad was right, you catch more flies with honey.
Fully turning toward him, I reach out and wipe a piece of mud off his brow. He tries to lean into my touch, but I pull away before he can make too much contact. “Listen, there’s nothing really to be said. We’re good. Don’t worry about it.” My towel starts to come undone, so I grip the knot, but making sure to hold it low.
His gaze drifts down to the abundance of cleavage I’m displaying. He rakes his hand over his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut.
“It’s been a long and painful day, Sutton. Don’t tempt me.”
“What are you talking about? I’m not tempting you.”
“You’re not?” His brow shoots up. “You’ve been sweet to me all day after I left your apartment without saying a word, and you’re strutting around this house like a goddamn temptress with your tight white shirts and towel dances.”
“Towel dances?” My nose curls. “I highly doubt standing here in the hallway and talking to you like an adult is considered a towel dance.”