Self-consciousness. Not knowing what to do without hockey. This miserable ranch.
So she loosened her wrists out of his grasp and did something even more nonsensical and unreasonable than kissing him. She pressed her palm to the bulge in his pants, absorbed the heat of him, the length of him. “You are decidedly not soft.”
He huffed out a laugh, but his fingers curled around her wrists again, pulling them away from his body, but not letting them go once he did. “I don’t want you to have sex with me out of anger.”
Some of the exciting, forget-all-her-troubles warmth cooled, the throbbing dulled, leaving an unsatisfied ache. “I think you might be out of luck any other way.” Because this certainly wasn’t born of anything except basic physical attraction and frustration. Period.
He dropped her wrists, looking ridiculously sheepish for someone who’d initiated this whole thing. “Maybe we should be out of luck then.”
She scooted sideways so he wouldn’t be right in front of her, so she could escape. The rejection stung more, because she never should have let this happen in the first place. It was supposed to be wrong and stupid and feel good, and he was saying no.
No.
Didn’t that figure? “I should go.”
“Mel, you can’t go. We have…”
“Work to do?” She arched an eyebrow at him, because she was determined to be tough and unaffected, on the outside at the very least. She gestured toward his very obvious erection. “I think you might be busy.”
“Don’t go. Don’t make this—”
“Don’t tell me what to do, Sharpe.” She would not be told how to live her life. There were already too many factors taking away her choices. “I’m going to go feed the llama. You get dressed and…do what you need to do. Then we’re going to Bozeman to get you a damn truck.”
“Mel.”
“End of story.” Because she was in charge, and the point here was not Dan. It was to get his neglected ranch off the ground. Dan was an inconsequential part of this whole thing. “Make some coffee and bring me a mug when you’re finished.”
She tried to walk out of his house with a normal, purposeful stride, but she wasn’t delusional enough to believe she accomplished it. This was a stomp, a storm out.
What was wrong with her right now? She needed to get it together. So she walked and walked until she came to the fence around the stables. And the llama.
She stared at the llama, and it stared back.
She took a deep breath and slowly let it out. She was fine. This was fine. She was strong and in charge, and just because she’d been feeling a little beat down lately didn’t mean she couldn’t handle this.
She should thank Dan for rejecting her. It was the best damn thing to happen today.
“Oh, that asshole.” Because as much as she should be grateful, there were certain parts of her not getting the message.
She squeezed her eyes shut and pushed away from the fence. She couldn’t keep losing it with Dan. Even if he felt sorry enough for her not to fire her, she had her pride and her name.
She would not let him think she was a flake, or worse, that she would ever be one of the many women who dropped their panties for him.
She took another deep, centering breath. That thought helped. Imagining hordes of women tossing their—probably much lacier and more expensive—underwear at him helped. She was not made for Dan Sharpe.
She was made for these mountains.
Hard, craggy, but impressive. Standing the test of time, century after century. Maybe she wouldn’t be around for centuries, but things she worked for would.
Mr. Hockey Player could not move mountains, even if he could get her blood pumping.
The llama made some creepy llama noise, like a sheep on steroids. They were really going to have to do something about this thing. How on earth had it survived without anyone even knowing it existed?
Mel faced down the beast. It didn’t move, didn’t blink. She had the sudden desire to somehow win. To show this animal what was what. She was immovable; it was an animal.
She stared it down to no avail, and when it didn’t move, she decided to take matters into her own hands. She put one foot on the bottom of rung of the fence, ready to leverage herself up and over, but Dan’s voice stopped her.
“What are you doing?”
“Next time, llama,” she muttered, putting her foot back on the ground. She turned to Dan. “Just trying to feed him.”
“Shouldn’t you go through the indoor part? You know, so he doesn’t eat you or pulverize you with his demon eyes.” He handed her a mug of coffee. Just as she’d asked.
Which made her feel soft, and when she felt soft—attack. “Well, I’m not a wimp, Dan.”
He scratched a hand through his hair, which looked kind of wet. He’d taken a shower. What had he done in there?
Her eyes were halfway to his crotch before she remembered she was a mountain and all that. A mountain unmoved by erections, too-tight-for-work jeans, and T-shirts that strained against the bulge of biceps.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.