Redneck Romeo (Rough Riders #15)(27)

That’s because you can’t deny it.


Christ. She had to be the most masochistic woman on the planet, jumping in the mosh pit with Dalton McKay again.


But Dalton didn’t gloat. He seemed relieved. “Answer the question. How many dates?”


Somehow, Rory tossed out, “Five dates. Real dates.”


“What constitutes a real date?”


“The usual. We meet. We talk.” Too easy. Add another stipulation. “And we kiss.”


“I’ll agree with that definition.”


Wait a second. Why was he being so agreeable? And why did she feel she’d stumbled into another trap?


“Our first date was down by the creek the time you asked if we could touch tongues because you didn’t get how French kissing could be fun and not gross.”


“That was not a date! We were ten and twelve years old.”


“Hey, I’m following your criteria.” His voice dropped to a husky murmur. “And we kissed that day, jungle girl. I still remember the taste of your lip gloss. Something sweet and fruity. The flavor was sugar…something.”


“Sugarplum.”


“You still use it?”


“My tastes are a little more refined than a ten-year-old girl’s these days.”


“Pity. Our second date was the night I so charmingly rid you of that pesky virginity. I kissed you then.”


“You’re insane.”


“Our third date was the night in Laramie when I drove you home from the bar and we ended up in bed. I kissed you then too.” His gaze dipped to her chest. “More than just your mouth, if I recall.”


Her face heated from his purely sexual look. “If I recall, I was drunk, so it shouldn’t count.”


“You sobered up damn fast after you threw up all the alcohol. You knew exactly what you were doin’ when you invited me into your bed.”


Why didn’t he have selective memory like most men?


“Then the night I caught up with you at the Twin Pines? Date four.”


Rory shook her head. “No way. That one is reaching.”


“How about the second time we were together in Laramie?”


She remained stoic. “I don’t even want to think about that time, Mr. How-fast-can-I-put-my-pants-on-and-run-out?”


“Not fast enough if I recall correctly. Didn’t you kick me in the balls?”


Rory smirked.


“I’ll disqualify that one. How about two nights ago when you came to my place? That was very date-like and we kissed. So by my count? We’ve reached that magical dating number today. Right now as a matter of fact.” He smiled with utter confidence and charm. “Face it, sugarplum. We are officially in a relationship. Feel free to tell your girlfriends you’ll have a plus one next Friday night for date night.”


The food arrived, cutting off her retort.


While she shoved bites of burrito in her mouth, Dalton kept sneaking looks at her and smiling, a little too…pleased with himself.


She set her fork on her plate. “You’re gonna make me ask about that smirk, aren’t you?”


“Nope. It’s not a smirk; it’s a smile. This is what I look like when I’m happy.” He picked up her hand and kissed her knuckles. “You have no idea how happy I am.”


Oh, how sweet.


Are you out of your f*cking mind? He’s not sweet. This man has an agenda, he’s working an angle. And you’re falling for it.


“What’s wrong?”


You. Me. This. But mostly me because I cannot believe I’m getting sucked in by you again. “I, ah, think I ate too fast.”


His eyes showed concern. “Do you have antacids? If not I’ve probably got some in my truck.”


See? Sweet. Genuinely sweet. Like the time when you were kids and you jabbed a piece of wood in the bottom of your foot and he carried you to the cabin.


She’d forgotten that. What other good things had she forgotten about Dalton McKay? A lot.


What’s goin’ on between us ain’t really so sudden.


That freaked her the f*ck out. She stood abruptly. “Thanks for lunch, I gotta go or I’m gonna be late getting back to work.”


That marked the first time she ran away from Dalton McKay.


Chapter Eight


For the past two days, Rory’s concerns, accusations, whatever they were, kept popping up while Dalton was alone working on the house. He admitted they had a tumultuous past, but it hadn’t started out that way.


Dalton remembered the first time he’d met Rory when he’d been nine years old. Most kids didn’t recall specific days from their childhood with such clarity, but meeting her had been a life-changing event for him.


Had he ever told her that?


Probably not. And if he told her that now she wouldn’t believe him. The woman was so damn suspicious of him. Not that he blamed her, given their history.


That afternoon he’d raced away from home as fast as his legs could carry him to the secret spot he’d discovered—a mini oasis compared to the dry, flat land around his house. The creek zigzagged, leaving one section accessible through the fence line. He’d been warned to stay out of the area, but the sound of water soothed him. The icy coldness of it numbed the pain from the strap marks on his backside. He could lie on the flat rock beside the creek and gaze at the sky, lazing in the sun like an old barn cat. Lazing in a way that’d get him whupped again at home. He’d hidden himself away there more than a dozen times, always alone.