Heartless (Chestnut Springs, #2)(29)

Not a grumpy rancher.

Not a sweet single dad.

Like someone who has a lot more experience than I do staring me down in an unnerving way.

“I made it, Red.”

Red. It’s not the first time a person has taken to calling me that. Usually it’s regulars at the bar. Usually it’s a casual nickname.

But with Cade, it feels different. I like it. Feels like he has a special name for me.

I’m so lame.

“You did good,” I reply, rolling my lips together and admiring the deck. I’m not lying, it’s a great deck. I just feel like a bumbling idiot bringing it up. It’s probably worse than talking about the weather.

“Would you like a drink?” His voice isn’t harsh, but it’s strained.

Hell yes. A drink would be excellent for this situation. “Sure.”

He shifts and stares down at his lap before stretching one long, muscled arm in my direction, a crystal tumbler held between strong fingers, forearms rippling in the dim light. The veins like an enticing path. My eyes can’t help but wander up to his biceps.

To his chest and the dusting of black hair there.

To that little dip between his collarbones.

The man is a walking, talking wet dream and I’m not even sure he realizes it.

I take the glass from him, trying to ignore the zing of electricity that shoots up my arm when our fingers brush. I drop his glare, focusing on the glass—on not dropping it. “Thanks.”

When I peek up at him, he’s still glaring at me. And I’m not sure what I’ve done to make him mad.

“You’re welcome.”

“What is it?” I take a sip, grateful that I can hide behind the rim of the glass for a minute and try to find my composure.

“Bourbon.”

The sweet burn of it warms my throat, and I lean into that, trying to let it soothe my nerves, the ones that are rioting under his stare.

More often than not, his scowls make me want to flip him the finger, but I feel a bit like we turned a corner tonight, and now the glare is making me feel self-conscious.

While I lick the remnants off my lips, I slide through the water to hand it back to him. His eyes follow my tongue in the least discreet way. The brush of it more sensual than I anticipated. The weight of the water pressing on all the best places.

I’ve never reacted this way to a man simply looking at me. Years in a bar with men giving me covetous looks, and none had me fumbling around like a nervous virgin.

I should hate him for it. But I’m intrigued. “Want to play a game?” I ask, pushing backwards across the space toward my bench. My foot glides against his calf as I go.

He quickly pulls his leg away. “I’m a little old for games, Willa.”

I quirk a brow, hiding my arms under the water to cover the gooseflesh popping up in response to his words. “Never too old for truth or dare.”

He stares at me, fingers pulsing around the glass propped up in his hand.

Having Luke out of the house is making me bold. It’s just us and what feels like an endless stretch of land behind me. “Truth or dare, Cade?”

He takes a swig, eyes almost coal black in the night. “Truth.”

“Where are my panties?”

His lips slope up, a sly expression hitting his face. “In the garbage.”

I giggle, tipping my head up to stare at the stars overhead. “Good. Your turn to ask.”

A deep rumble hums in his chest, and my eyes drop to the definition in his pecs. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth.” No way am I picking dare. He’ll dare me not to talk for a week or something.

“Why did you have underwear in your purse?”

I push forward to snag the glass of bourbon out of his hand. My knee brushes his, but this time he doesn’t move. I take a small sip, eyes shifting to meet his. “Honestly, I don’t like wearing underwear. They’re uncomfortable, they ride up, they leave panty lines that I hate. They’re just a nuisance, so I carry a spare pair.” I point at him. “Clean ones. Just in case of emergency.”

“A panty emergency?”

I shrug, pressing the glass back into his fingers and giving them a squeeze around the glass to make sure he doesn’t drop it. “You just never know,” I reply as I move to his bench rather than across from him.

It will make sharing the drink easier.

That’s what I tell myself.

“Why do panty lines matter? If people know you’re wearing underwear, is that . . .” His face scrunches kind of adorably. “Is that a bad thing? Everyone wears underwear.”

I laugh. “Well, that’s true. I guess it shouldn’t matter.” I hold up an imaginary drink in his direction for a fake cheers. “Thank you, patriarchy.”

“You know I’m right.”

“You might be right, but I still hate them.”

His lips work against each other like he’s really chewing on something. “Every morning when you text me you’ve put them on, are you lying?”

“You just had your turn, Eaton. Don’t be greedy with the questions. I thought you didn’t like playing games?”

“Fuck my life,” he mutters, taking another long pull of the alcohol.

“Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”