Ginger's Heart (A Modern Fairytale, #3)(17)

Without warning her, he jerked his head away from her, breaking off their kiss as his fingers, still threaded deeply into her hair, flexed and froze in horror.

This wasn’t some girl with dyed hair that he’d picked up at the goddamned Gas & Sip! This was Ginger! The princess. Everything good and sweet and pure. And his lips . . . God, his lips had been in places he could hardly bear to think about right now, but he certainly had no business tarnishing her sweet lips with his.

And f*ck. She was Woodman’s Ginger, not his. She deserved someone like his cousin—someone upstanding and smart and clean who hadn’t f*cked half the county, who had a decent future mapped out for his life that he could offer to a girl like her. Hell, hell, hell, f*ck. He panted raggedly, sliding his hands from her hair and wincing as he realized the full magnitude of what he’d just done.

“Cain?” she murmured, her eyes fluttering open, drunk and dark with lust.

His heart clenched, and he swallowed over the lump in his throat, and, God almighty, if he was wrecked one second ago, now he was ruined for life. She raised her hand to press her fingertips against her lips, and her eyes, so soft and sweet, were languid as her body leaned toward his and her chest heaved with breaths as labored as his own. Until he died, he’d have this vision in his head of Princess Ginger’s blinding, angelic beauty.

“Sorry,” he said harshly, edging away from her.

“No,” she said quickly, dropping her fingers to reach for his arm. “It’s okay. It’s fine. I wanted—”

“You’re a little girl. You don’t know what you want,” he said, his voice cold. He scooted away from her and stood up in retreat, leaving her hand suspended and lonely in midair.

“I do know!” she insisted, turning her whole body to look up at him. “God, Cain, I’ve always known! It’s always been you.”

I’ve always known! It’s always been you!

The words cracked like a whip in his head, half heaven and half hell. Heaven because she wanted him and always had. Hell because it could never, ever be.

He put his hands on his hips, looking down at her, unable to process the feelings that were taking up all the space in his chest, barely leaving space for air, for his beating heart, for sane thought. He had to get out of here. Now.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll be seein’ you, Gin.”

“O-okay,” she said softly, still staring up at him, fear edging out the lust that had made her eyes so soft and shiny. They were wary now. Worried. And he f*cking hated it. “Cain, please don’t be sorry.”

But I am sorry. I’m sorry I know how kissin’ you feels because I’m never goin’ to be able to forget it. I’m sorry I betrayed my cousin’s trust. I’m sorry I touched you when I had no right.

“Yeah,” he said, swiping his thumb over his lips.

“I’ll see you at seven?”

Seven? Oh Lord. Homecoming. No. He couldn’t go. It was out of the question.

But her eyes looked up at him, exquisite and pleading, and he heard himself answer, “Uh, yeah. Seven.”

Then he turned and hurried through the hayloft, down the ladder, by the stables, and out onto the gravel lot. He put on his helmet, straddled his bike, and kicked up the stand. Without looking up or looking back, he sped away, shame and guilt chasing him down the gravel driveway and onto the road that led to the distillery.

He was a thief who’d taken what wasn’t his . . .

. . . and a fool who wanted what he could never have.





Chapter 5


Woodman



“She’s a beauty, sir,” said Woodman to Ginger’s father before gazing back at the newborn foal.

“That she is,” said Ranger, who always rolled up his sleeves to be present at the birth of a new McHuid horse, no matter what other business might be pressing. “With a sire like Rollin’ Thunder, we knew she’d be gorgeous.”

Woodman rubbed Bit-O-Honey’s nose, and the mare groaned softly. “You did real good, mama.”

“Wie ist sein Name?” asked Uncle Klaus, his ice-blue eyes flashing with rare excitement. “Her name?”

Ranger huffed, looking at the dark brown foal. “Magnolia started namin’ all the mares after candy, and I shoulda stopped her at some point, but I never had the heart. With a daddy like Rollin’ Thunder, guess we’ll go with Rolo. Sound good?”

“Rolo,” said Uncle Klaus, testing the name in his heavy German accent. “Ja. I like it.”

Woodman stepped away from Bit-O-Honey as she sprang to her feet, feeling grateful that her heavy breathing had started to normalize after the stress of an hour-long labor. His uncle pulled the placenta away from Rolo’s soft hair, and the baby struggled a bit at first, but finally made it up onto all four legs.

The three men chuckled and clapped for the tiny mare, but oblivious to their praise, she made a small sound of discontent, sniffing the air for her mama’s teats. She stumbled twice, but finally made her way over, latching quickly and drinking her fill.

“Congrats again, sir,” said Woodman, picking up a wool blanket off the grass and slinging it over his arm. He’d drop it in the basket by the tack room to be washed before heading up to the main house to see Ginger.

Ranger McHuid, his brown eyes the same color as Ginger’s, looked up at Woodman from where he knelt on the grass. “We’re sure goin’ to miss you, son.”