“Damn it all to hell!” I shout when I collide headfirst into a hard chest the second my boots hit the threshold, knocking me back until my ass painfully hits the floor. “Son of a bitch,” I breathe as a sharp pain shoots up my back from where my tailbone painfully smacked against the unforgiving hardwood just inside my door.
I look up and gasp when I see the reason for my tumble before quickly getting my face under control to something resembling calm and collected, despite the scene I’ve just created, and raising a brow in question. He doesn’t speak, but takes a step closer and bends slightly to offer me his hand.
“You should learn to look before opening your door,” Maverick says in a voice that’s deep and rusty, making me fight off a shiver of arousal.
“If that’s an apology, you really need to work on your execution.”
His mouth turns up on one side, his full lips mockingly saying without words that an apology was not his intention.
Agh, that good-for-nothing, arrogant, stubborn asshole.
“You know, while you’re at it, you should add workin’ on your manners too. You really seem to be lackin’ in that area,” I retort sarcastically, ignoring his proffered hand and climbing to my feet, rubbing the sore spot on my ass.
“Guess I’ll add that to the list of other shit my mama never taught me,” he drawls.
I bend over and grab my purse before standing straight, squaring my shoulders and meeting his eyes. His expression doesn’t change as he brings up one tan hand to tip his hat back slightly, allowing me a better view of those bright green eyes the Davis kids are known for.
“What are you doing here, Maverick?” I ask on a sigh. “I’m runnin’ late and need to get out of here.”
“Figured I needed to stop by,” he says in way of an answer.
That’s all? What in the hell does that mean?
“Then I would reckon we aren’t on the same page, because I’m not sure I would agree with you there.”
“You gonna let me in or what?”
I let out a humorless laugh. “Or what.” Pulling my purse over my shoulder, I reach out and press both palms against his stomach and give him a shove backward, mentally screaming at myself not to enjoy the way his rock-hard abs feel against my hands. Nope, not going to enjoy that one bit.
Christ, he feels like hot stone under my skin.
Focus, Leighton!
He allows me to push him back a step. I shut the door hard enough that the sound rings out like a gunshot. When I turn back, I notice he’s been holding the screen door open with his leg, and I raise my brow in question as he continues to prop it open.
“Mind letting go of my door? I’ve got places to be,” I snap, pretty proud of the fact that my voice sounds a lot calmer than I feel—well, if bitchy is calm.
He moves his leg, letting the screen crack against the door frame, but doesn’t make another move to let me walk past him down the porch steps he’s blocking.
“Are you going to speak?” I heatedly complain when it becomes clear that he’s either become mute in the past few seconds or is intentionally being an even bigger ass.
“I was out of line earlier. Just wanted you to know.”
My jaw drops as I stare up at him dumbly. Are we serious right now?
“You were out of line?”
“That’s what I said, darlin’,” he responds, crossing his arms over his chest and squaring his stance. I look down, seeing the fabric of his shirt stretch against his thick biceps. The long sleeves are folded and pushed up to his elbows, making the veins in his forearms stand out as they pulse thickly. It takes one hell of an effort on my part not to lick my lips at that sight.
Who would have thought that veins could be sexy? I bet if I ran my tongue up their length, he would taste delicious. Wait—no! Shit, he hasn’t even been back long enough for his engine to cool down and I’m right back where I was ten years ago, lusting after him even though I sure as hell know better now.
I tear my eyes away from his forearms—those sexy, hot, lickable—dadgum, Leighton, snap out of it!
“I’m not your darlin’. It’s Leighton, and you best remember that, cowboy,” I harshly whisper before poking him in the chest. He needs to stop calling me that or I’ll be putty in his hands. Is there anything sexier than a deep southern drawl uttering the word “darlin’?”? Nope—there isn’t, which is why he needs to stop that immediately.
“Cowboy?” he questions, unfolding his arms to swat my hand away. “Jesus Christ, would you stop doing that shit?”
“Look,” I huff, taking a page out of his book and crossing my arms over my chest. “I don’t know why you felt like you needed to come out here. So you said some callous things earlier, whatever, I’m over it.”
“You ain’t over shit, darlin’,” he says, laughing.
“Leighton. You don’t know me well enough to be dropping those ‘darlin’s!’?” I yell, fighting the urge to stomp my foot and have a conniption fit, ignoring the way my body is burning with arousal. He has got to stop calling me that; just hearing that word spoken in his deep velvet voice is enough to make me want to start dry humping the air.
“Yeah. Like I said, you ain’t over shit. I was out of line. We need to put it behind us so I can go back to the ranch.”
His words hit me, the meaning clear, and I’m suddenly even more pissed than I was just a second before.
“So you can go back to the ranch?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Why, you good-for-nothing jerk. You didn’t come over here to apologize for showing your ass, but to what? You get put in time-out by Clay? Or Quinn? You could have saved us both the trouble and just driven around in that flashy little truck of yours for a red-hot minute before heading back and reporting to them like a good little boy that you had done as ordered.”
“Now, you listen here—” he starts, stepping forward, our chests just a foot apart.
“Oh, I don’t think so, mister. You might think the sun came up just to hear you crow, but I assure you that I don’t need your cocky ass lighting my doorstep. How’s this? Go on back and tell them that I accepted your ‘apology’ and agreed to let bygones be bygones.”
His brow shoots up with my air quotes and I watch the anger flash in his eyes, turning the bright green into a murky storm.
I don’t give him a second longer before I edge around him and stomp to my Jeep. One booted foot on the running board later, I’m behind the wheel and turning up dirt as I whip the wheel and speed down my gravel drive.
Who the hell does he think he is? And what in the hell was that back there about? And more important, how do I convince my body that it’s a bad idea to lust over Maverick Davis again?
Shit, I’m screwed.