Change Rein (Willow Bay Stables #1)(17)

“In case you’ve forgotten, I’d willingly offer your sister the gory details of our time in the bathroom together—”

Aurora’s eyebrow cocks in her sister’s direction.

“—so she can fully understand just how unwell you are.”

As if interpreting what her sister must be thinking by the look on her face, London immediately spurs to life. “He held my hair while I upchucked on the bathroom floor,” she so colorfully chirps. “We didn’t do that . . .” Her voice drops off, and I’m rewarded with the first blush of color on the paleness of her face since she got sick.

Covering her mouth with her hands, her sister fights back a laugh before righting her posture and giving me a mock glare. “Do you intend on making my sister the star of a Criminal Minds episode?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Do you intend on returning her home in one piece?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I grin, finding her playful personality infectious. “I plan on bringing her home happy, well fed, and willing to go on a date with me.”

Nodding her head, she slaps her hands together and trots towards us. “Well, there you go. That’s settled. It would seem he’s not a serial killer.”

“There musta been a bucket of crazy in the water this morning,” London whines.

“Y’all have fun.” Aurora chuckles. “But lest you forget, Mr. Tucker—our Daddy’s got guns he’s mighty fond of. So I’d make sure you put an emphasis on the happy part of your statement, sir. Seems the Daniels men missed out on hunting this season. As such, they’ve got a happy trigger finger.” Then she walks into the barn and out of sight.

The entire armed forces could be waiting on her doorstep every time I come around, and it wouldn’t deter me in the slightest.

She is mine.

After clearing a few more feet, I lean over the edge of my convertible and settle her into the passenger’s seat. Her face contorts and my heart plummets.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Leaning my forearms onto the door, I turn her face towards me. “Are you going to be sick again, London?”

“No.” A blush stains her face. “It’s my ass.”

I’d be willing to bet the whole damn farm that my face looks priceless as all heck. “Pardon?”

“My injury.” She looks down, defeat clouding her features.

The lion in me wants to roar, desperate to protect her from anything that makes her feel like anything less than the beautiful, talented woman she is.

Cue the trumpets. Another bachelor down, and a lovesick fool returning in his place.

I can tell she feels the need to explain what she means, but there’s no need. I’ve seen the videos and read the articles. I am well aware of her injuries, and an idiot for having handled her the way I did. In my haste to touch her, I could have hurt her.

“Look at me.” I expect her to protest, but baby blue eyes lift to mine. “We all have scars, angel. Wear yours proudly. They were not earned lightly, and as such, they are nothing to be ashamed of.”

The eye contact is almost too much, and like a coward, I sever it in an attempt to gather my thoughts before rounding the hood of my car. Sliding behind the wheel, I look over to find her watching me with intense curiosity. If I were a lesser man, I’d certainly have shrunk under her scrutiny.

What finally falls from her perfect lips is a mere but powerful. “Thank you.”

“What do you like to eat?” I ask, positioning my sunglasses back over the bridge of my nose and putting the car into drive.

“I can’t go out with you looking like that”—she waves a hand in my direction—“while I look like this.” She subsequently waves a hand over her own body the way she did with mine. “I’m not wearing nice clothes.”

I’d take her out in a goddamn burlap sack if I wouldn’t be so damn worried about men looking at her long legs in it.

When I lean over her, her breath hitches and her lips part. “You look beautiful,” I praise. Then I grab her seatbelt, my knuckles grazing the front of her hoodie before I buckle her in.

Satisfied that she’s affected by me, I put the toe of my boot down onto the gas pedal.

Throwing her head back, she huffs in a whisper, “I’m not even wearing underwear.”

What the f*ck?

My foot hits the brake so hard that I’m worried we’ll both have whiplash.

“Get out,” I demand.

“W-w-what?” she stammers.

“I said get out of the car.” My voice deepens as I put the car in park. “Now.”

She scurries under my request, fumbling with the seatbelt. In her clumsy movements, I understand what my words must have sounded like to her.

“You were right.” I close my hands over her fidgeting ones. “I can’t take you out like this.”

Her face falls, and I want to shake my head at the absurdity of what she’s thinking.

“If I take you into town knowing you’re bare under those shorts, one of two things will happen. Either I’ll kill every man who looks at you, or you’ll be what I’m having to eat.”

Now, her mouth moves, but no words come out.

“I don’t think you’re ready for the latter, and I’m too pretty for prison, so you have five minutes to change into something”—I trail my thumb along her jaw—“with panties.”