Kiss My Boots (Coming Home #2)

“I was drunk!” I yell, squirming against his deliciously hard body until he finally lets me go. “I was drunk and you took advantage of that, you stupid fuck!”

I almost fall on my ass, but eventually I get free and finally come face-to-face with Tate Montgomery after nine long-as-hell years. He left a handsome boy and came back a devilishly hot man. His body, having always been in shape, is aged to perfection. His abs are a little more defined, his pecs even larger, and his arms that would—I’m sure—feel like steel bands when they were wrapped around you. My eyes travel up his neck, over the dark stubble on his chiseled jaw, until I see the pouty fullness of lips I used to dream of every night. I almost give up there, but I keep going until his light blue eyes are boring into mine, holding me captive and immobile. I vaguely register those mouthwatering wavy locks of his, but I’m powerless to do anything else but stare up at him—the boy turned man that I spent years mourning the loss of.

Who knows how long we stare at each other, each searching with so many questions hanging in the air around us. It’s almost . . . peaceful. Until he has to go and ruin it all.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispers. “And fuck, did it feel good to have you in my arms last night. Not sure how I stayed away this long now that I remember just how good you felt against my body.”

Cold water fills my veins and I slap him, hard enough to feel the burn of impact after his head jerks to the side.

“You, Tatum Montgomery, can kiss my fuckin’ boots.”

I don’t give him another glance. I spin around and dash down the hallway. It isn’t until I hit the top of the stairs that I realized I’m in Fisher Ford’s house. It’ll be a long walk back to the Davis ranch, but with the rage fueling my every step, I bet I’ll make it quicker than Usain Bolt on the Olympic track.

I hear him yelling my name, but I don’t turn. I pick up speed, running down his driveway and onto the street. Just before I’m out of sight of the old Ford place, I turn and see Tate’s hulking Adonis form standing on the porch. His arms are crossed over his impressive chest, and the erection behind his black briefs is visible even from the end of the driveway.

“This isn’t over, Quinn!” he bellows.

My feet stumble, but I catch myself, spinning around before I hit a stand of trees into which I can vanish. “Seriously, kiss my damn boots, Tatum Montgomery!”

Naturally, after that burst of defiance from my brain, I turn and kick up rocks in my rush to escape him, because right now I’m pretty sure I don’t want anything to be over. My mind turns me toward home a second later and I’m out of his view. Without thought, having pushed the last thirty minutes from my mind, I run harder than I’ve ever run in my life. My sockless feet scream inside my boots for me to slow down, but nervous fear keeps my legs pumping as I sprint the three miles back to my house, Tate’s stolen shirt puffing out behind me like a cape.

It isn’t until I’m panting in the middle of my bedroom that I realize I was crying.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?





9


TATE


“Song for Another Time” by Old Dominion

- -

“Dr. Montgomery,” a hesitant voice calls through the crack in my door.

“Yes?” I ask with a harsh bite to my tone.

“I . . . uh, well, we were wonderin’ if you wanted us to cancel the appointments that you have tomorrow. That is, if you, uh, need more time or anything.”

I frown, leaning back in Paw’s—no, my desk chair. “Carrie, is it?” I ask.

“Yes, sir,” she whispers.

God, have I been that bad? “Thanks for askin’, Carrie, but I’ll be fine. I’m caught up on what I need to know, so no need to push things back for another day.” It takes more effort than I care to admit to keep my voice calm. It isn’t her fault I’ve been kicking my ass for the last four days since I arrived in Pine Oak.

I see one brown eye widen through the crack of my door before she sputters in shock, leaving just as quickly as she came. Goddammit. I can’t have the staff here afraid of me. The last thing a woman needs when she arrives for an appointment with the one doctor she dreads going to each year is to find a staff that is afraid of the very one she’s seeing.

Needless to say, my first days as the new gynecologist in Pine Oak aren’t going well.

Not because of my abilities as a doctor, but because I’ve officially made every employee terrified of me. Okay, that might be a stretch, but these ladies have been used to my paw’s gentle-giant nature and now they’ve got me—a grumpy-as-fuck beast snarling at everyone that even looks at me.

I’m not officially taking on any patients yet, thank God, or I reckon I wouldn’t even be able to keep any with my temper sparked. The last two days since I’ve been here I’ve spent going over Paw’s files, familiarizing myself with the few higher-risk pregnancies he was dealing with, and trying to get a good sense of how the staff works.

Dr. Lyons, the other doctor that worked with Paw for as long as I could remember, is the only one not paying any mind to my surly mood. Hell, he’s been acting like the sun shines out of my ass, so damn happy that I’m taking over Paw’s practice that he’s probably blind to the fact that I’m pissin’ vinegar. He had been fully prepared—albeit grudgingly—to buy out the parts of their practice Paw had owned, but I let him know real quick that I wanted nothing more than take the position Paw had always hoped I would one day hold.

Leaning back in my seat, I let my mind wander to the very reason I’ve been in such a shitty mood since Saturday morning.

Quinn.

Or, rather, my behavior toward Quinn.

I was so wrapped up in seeing her again that I let it get the best of me. Instantly, I forgot that I should be proceeding with care and caution. Innocent mistake, since I had just woken up after having her almost completely naked body wrapped around my body all night. My mind hadn’t even turned all the way on before my mouth was spewing words I was powerless to stop, my hands moving without conscious thought, only wanting to feel her close a little bit longer.

I should have told her right off that nothing happened between us the night I took her home from the bar. I could have gotten her clothes out of the dryer I stuffed them in before I crashed, having stayed up after she passed out to wash the vomit off of them. Not that they would have been any good to her, since I washed them in bleach, my drunken mind not able to actually wash them correctly, just knowing I needed to get her barf off before it ruined them. We could have had breakfast together while I explained to her the truth behind my departure. But, most importantly, I wouldn’t have been able to reassure her that I wouldn’t ever take advantage of her like I know she left thinking I did.