by Tessa Layne
Up close, her eyes took his breath away. It wasn't the swelling and red from crying; he couldn't care less about that. And it wasn't their deep dark color that upon closer inspection wasn't plain dark brown, but a tapestry of warm amber and dark brown ringed in smoky coal. It was the way she stared back at him, with no pretense. Utterly defeated and making no attempt to hide it. Something deep inside of him melted. In his thirty-four years, no one had ever looked at him that way - unguarded. Vulnerable. A tremor shook him and this newly discovered protective instinct urged him on. More than anything he wanted to wrap her in his arms and hold her, be her soft landing place. She let out a ragged breath and dropped her eyes.
"Hey, hey," he said softly, crooking a finger under her chin and gently pulling her gaze back to him. "What happened, sweetheart?"
She stiffened, the bravado briefly returning. "I'm not..." She sagged, the fight leaving her again as she dropped her eyes and twisted her hands. "I lost my job yesterday," she whispered, a single fat tear rolling down her cheek.
Fucking hell.
The pieces slid into place. She must have driven straight here from Chicago. "I'm sorry about your car," he blurted. He didn't know what else to say. He wasn't the kind of man people turned to for comfort, but he wanted to say something. Yet letting on he knew a thing or two about losing everything felt a little too dangerous. Her eyes jerked to his, the raw vulnerability once again hidden behind a mask of suspicion. It left him feeling... disappointed. He guessed she didn't show that very often, and he liked that for a moment at least, he'd been privy to something about her he bet no one else saw. "Where can I take you?" It made no sense, but he'd take her anywhere she asked, whenever she asked it.
Her jaw set and she swiveled her hips so she was facing forward. "My family lives about a mile down the road on the other side of the high school."
Except for CiCi's terse directions, the short ride remained awkwardly silent. Trace pulled up to a drive lined with sunflower stalks and a brightly decorated mailbox with the name Sanchez written in script, and turned in, pulling to a stop in the roundabout in front of a large white porch in need of a paint job. To the left and behind stood a white barn with a quilt square mosaic below the hayloft. The meadows were lush green, and at one time probably held horses, maybe even cattle. "Thank you," she said curtly, unbuckling the seatbelt.
"Ah, so your armor's back in place is it?" he teased, understanding that all too well. So be it. He'd help her out, then leave. As it was, he faced a dressing down from Sterling and probably Travis, too, when he finally showed up at the ranch. But she looked so lonely and vulnerable when she thought he wasn't looking, he stalled. Trace cut the engine and hopped out, pulling out her suitcase when he'd rounded the rear, then depositing it on the porch steps. By the time he returned to the truck, she'd pushed the door open as far as she could and was struggling to exit. "Hold up, let me help you."
"I've got it," she protested, refusing to look at him.
"Quit being so damned stubborn and let me help you," he growled, blocking her exit. "You'll break an ankle if you jump."
She glared.
He arched a brow and glared back as he reached for her ankle. If she insisted on jumping, she'd have a better shot of not hurting herself if she did it barefoot. He slipped off the broken shoe first. "What in the hell?" he muttered as she flinched. "Jeezus, woman, how far did you walk in these?" Her feet were a bloody mess. By his count there were at least three broken blisters across the top, and when he pulled back her foot to examine the bottom, another enormous one between her big and second toe. Probably one on her heel, too, judging by the grimace on her face. He slipped off the other shoe, and winced at the sight of it. "Don't move," he ordered. He jogged back to the suitcase and dropped the pair. He'd take care of all that once she was safely settled inside. Back at the truck, he hauled her into his arms and stalked across the short drive. "You have a key?"
"It should be unlocked," she mumbled, cheeks flaming.
He shook his head in disbelief. "Doesn't anyone lock their doors here?" His Malibu house had three locks, a gate, and a security system. He pushed open the front door and stepped inside. "Where do you keep the first aid?"
She squirmed. "Look, I appreciate the whole knight in shining armor thing, but I can take it from here."
"Right," he snapped. "Clearly you've done a great job of it."
"I did what I had to do," she retorted, eyes snapping.
"Out of some sense of pride? A normal person would have asked for help. Weston offered to give you a ride. I offered to give you a ride," he gritted, deciding the kitchen counter was his best bet and rightly guessing it was down the short hall.
"No you didn't. Weston offered for you," she corrected.
"Do you always hide behind your prickles when people offer to help you?" He placed her on the counter next to the sink. "You might be able to fool some people with that, but not me. And since I'm already going to have Sterling and Travis all over my ass for being so damn late, I'm sure as hell not leaving until these blisters have been cleaned."
Seeing her like this brought up too many uncomfortable memories - the bravado that became part of who he was because as a scared fifteen-year-old, it was all he had. And looking at her feet? He shuddered. Maybe it was the surfer in him - more likely it was that he remembered too keenly the infected feet of the homeless men he'd encountered as a teenager sleeping under the pier. Injured feet got bad in a hurry if left untended.
Her eyes lit in challenge. "Fine. I wouldn't want to make you any later," she sassed, picking up her feet and dropping them into the sink.
Trace didn't miss her quick hiss as the water from the faucet hit her feet. This was not the way to tend to blisters. "Dammit, CiCi." His pulse pounded in his ears. He rarely lost his cool, but he was a second from blowing his stack. "Stop pushing back and let me help you."
"Cecilia."
"What?"
"My name's Cecilia," she huffed, reaching for the dish soap.
He braced his hands on the edge of the counter, chest heating from the pure frustration of her. "Do you have to be so stubborn, Cecilia?" he said with a clenched jaw.
She looked up and met his gaze, a fierce fire in her eyes. "Yes," she answered low and rough.
The absurdity of it hit him. She was like an injured stray - hissing and scratching, preferring to lick her wounds in solitude rather than trust another soul. A harsh laugh exploded from his belly. "You're batshit crazy, you know that?" Another laugh followed, and a third. "And you know what? This whole biting the hand that feeds you act doesn't fool me for a second." He leaned forward boxing her in - half-pissed, half-amused, and a whole helluva lot of frustrated and aroused. She sucked in a breath, looking ready to unleash another tirade, but he placed a finger over her lips, ignoring the jolt of pure attraction that electrified him when he touched her. "You want everyone to think you're so tough. But I see you Cecilia Sanchez."
She blinked rapidly, but not fast enough to prevent another tear from slipping down her face. He caught it with his thumb.
He shook his head and backed up, resisting the urge to lick the place where he'd caught her tear. "You have a nice day, Cecilia. Be sure to wrap those feet when you're done cleaning them." He turned and stalked out, letting the screen door slam behind him when he reached the porch. Never had he met a woman as captivating and as infuriating as Cecilia Sanchez. She threw him off his game, completely unsettled him.
Weston was right. He needed to steer clear.
Chapter Nine
Cecilia wrinkled her nose as she stepped into the old barn, and let the familiar scent of mold, old wood, and straw wrap around her like a favorite blanket. She'd loved her life in Chicago, but there was something tranquil about being back in a slower environment where time was dictated by the sun, not the opening bell. She walked down the empty aisle, reminiscing about the days when the barn held horses, goats, and the occasional chicken that had escaped the coop. Her mom and grandmother had sold the big farm equipment wh
en Mariah had gone off to college. The only reason the two hadn't retired to Florida was because of her grandmother. Her beloved abuelita had been born in this house, the youngest of 6 children in a ranching and sheepherding family that relocated from northern New Mexico at the end of the Dust Bowl. I was born in this house, I will die in this house, she was fond of reminding them.
In a darkened corner of what used to be the tack room, she found what she was looking for. Propped up against the far wall stood her old three-speed, a bike she'd cherished in high school. She dusted off the seat with an old rag she'd brought from the kitchen, and wheeled it through the barn and out into the afternoon sunlight. Cecilia cocked her head, eyeing it critically. A little rusty, but the bell still worked, and she could get a replacement basket at Anders' Feed 'n Seed. And since it would be weeks before she could run again thanks to her messed up feet, biking into town would be a welcome, somewhat less painful source of exercise.
Although, the first place she was headed at the invite of one of her oldest and bestest friends, Isabella Capizzi - Izzie, was the new roughstock riding school just outside of town. Izzie's brother Robbie, and his best friend Tony Cruz were practicing for the upcoming Flint Hills Rodeo. "This'll be the perfect time for us to dish and catch up," she'd begged Cecilia. "And ogle the new students."
"You just want to see Jaxon Boyd's ass framed by a pair of chaps," she'd teased back. Izzie'd had a lifelong crush on Jaxon, a very talented rider and also the high school's math teacher and football coach.
"We're going to support my brother and Tony," she'd denied.
Sure they were. Cecilia could practically hear the blush in her voice. "You keep telling yourself that, Iz."
Cecilia checked her phone. If she didn't leave now, she'd be late. Gingerly, because even with Band-Aids and moleskin, her feet were still tender, she kicked a leg over the seat and set her foot on the pedal. It hurt to pedal, but that was to be expected. She had no one to blame but herself, so she took the pain, thoughts drifting back to her encounter yesterday with the mysterious Trace Walker.
You want everyone to think you're so tough. But I see you Cecilia Sanchez.
She'd about melted on the spot at the look in his eyes when he'd called her out. And for a split second, in spite of her sassing, he'd looked like he wanted to kiss her. But there was something about him she couldn't quite put her finger on. Cecilia was certain they'd met before, and for the life of her she couldn't figure out where. She'd piece it together soon enough. She always figured things out. Just ask her asshole of a father. He still blamed her for his divorce.
That said, she owed Trace an apology. Straight-up. She'd been horrible yesterday - a combination of emotional and physical exhaustion, anger, and... something deeper... something hotter that she was determined to ignore. In fact, the only reason she'd agreed to ride her bike out to the roughstock school was in the hopes she could make a personal apology, and maybe figure out his story.
When it came to socializing, she was much more of a homebody than most of her friends, preferring to putter and think and write when she was alone. A quiet girls night with Izzie and Jeanine held vastly more appeal than hooting and hollering at a rodeo practice arena. But she'd join this time if it meant running into Trace. And his eyes still niggled at her. Last night, lying in bed, she'd gone through a mental catalog of all the places where they might have crossed paths, and she came up empty. But she was certain they had.
Her sister's suggestion of a fling came back to her as she pedaled down the dirt road that bypassed the main road out of town. Trace Walker could be the perfect kind of fling material that Mariah had suggested. Except for the fact he drove her crazy, and the urge to smack him was as strong as the urge to kiss him. She pushed the thought from her mind, and turned her attention to her sister's other suggestion.
She wouldn't be in Prairie long enough to justify purchasing a horse, but what if she started working to fix up the house for her mom and grandmother? It wasn't investigative journalism, but it was something she might enjoy. And she could figure out her next steps while she worked. "Whaa!" She shrieked, jerking the handlebars to avoid an unexpected rut but hit a rock instead. The pedals locked with a sickening grind as she flew over the handlebars and landed on the gravel with a breath-stealing thud. Pain shot up her wrists as hot tears pricked her eyelids. Cecilia dropped her head and let out an almighty wail. What was it with her? "Are you just out to get me?" she yelled at the Universe, shaking a fist, before inspecting her hand. Her palm was scraped and a little bloody from the impact, but after a few wrist circles, it was clear the most bruising was to her ego.
Dust kicked up at the end of the road, signaling the presence of an oncoming vehicle. She struggled up and hobbled over to where her bike lay. "Great," she groaned, seeing one end of the chain dangling in the dirt and realizing she hadn't thought to bring her bike tools. She was still a couple miles from the roughstock riding school, and no cell service. Hopefully one of them would come looking for her when they realized she was late. She picked up her bike and began slowly walking it along the side of the road.
"Well, well," drawled none other than Trace Walker with an arm hanging out the driver's window as the truck slowed to a stop. "What do we have here?"
The second she laid eyes on Trace's smug smirk and his laughing eyes, all thoughts of apology flew out the window. "Nothing," she waved him on. "Just out for a country walk." Why did he always seem to appear when she was at her worst?
"Limping and with a broken chain." He hopped out of the car, looking way too fine in a pair of worn jeans, still designer, but worn enough they molded to his thighs. Instead of a custom fit button-up, today he wore a snug black tee that hugged every dip and curve from his pecs to his abs. Even from a short distance, his corded arms jumped out at her. The man was built, and in spite of her irritation at his smugness and her almost maniacal desire to best him verbally, she couldn't deny the effect he had on her lady parts.
"Don't get any ideas," she quipped. "I'm in a hurry, and I'll fix it when I get home."
His hand shot out and covered hers on the handlebar. She sucked in a startled breath, more from the zing that shot up her arm than from anything else. Her pulse began to hum like a tree full of August locusts.
"Where you headed?" he asked, eyes drilling into hers.
She blinked, mouth turning to dust, and hating that all it took was one hard look from him to turn her mind to mush and erase her list of hard-hitting questions. "Roughstock riding school."
Trace let go of her hand and crossed his arms, a slow triumphant smile pulling at the corners of his perfect mouth. "Looks like you're in need of rescuing... again."
Cecilia let out a little growl. The man was infuriating. "I can rescue myself, thank you very much," she said firmly.
"Just like you did last time?" he taunted with a low chuckle that made her belly roll.
Ooh, the nerve of him. "I'm not some helpless waif in need of a man."
"The only thing you need, Cecilia," his voice turned to gravel. "Is a damned spanking."
She gasped, face heating. "Is that what you think? You know, I was all set to apologize to you for yesterday, but now I take it back." Her lob fell flat, because Trace's mouth twitched like he was trying not to laugh.
"Apology accepted, but you can't take it back when you haven't offered it."
"Then you can't accept it," she fired back.
"Sure, I can."
"Oh no you can't." She shook her head vehemently. "I took it back."
He raised an eyebrow, eyes twinkling. "You never offered it." He drew a finger down her nose and tapped the tip. "So you can't take it back."
Gah! She had never met a man who infuriated her like he did - he literally made her head spin to the point of dizziness and her blood heat to boiling. "YOU CAN'T ACCEPT WHAT I NEVER OFFERED." Her voice rose to harpy levels, but at the moment, she didn't care.
Trace tilted his head back and let out a throaty laugh. "You're a piece of work,
you know that?" His voice shook with mirth. "I'll be happy to accept your apology over dinner."
She blinked. Twice. "What did you just say?"
"You heard me. I'll be happy to accept your apology over dinner."
"I don't think so." She shook her head. Was he nuts? He was nuts. He couldn't possibly think dinner was a good idea.
"You make me nuts."
Shit. Shitshitshit. "I didn't-"
He held up a finger. "You absolutely did say that, and we can explore your need to constantly argue over a bottle of wine at the trattoria."
"So we can get into a shouting match in public where the whole town can watch? Hard pass."
"Cecilia." His voice dropped about an octave. The way he said her name sent a shiver of arousal down her spine, and an ache bloomed between her legs. The rough quality scraped over her sensitive spots like sandpaper. No one talked to her that way - like she needed to be disciplined. The note of command in the way he said her name stopped her in her tracks and turned her knees to jelly.
Charlie the Cheater had never made her feel this way - unsettled, on edge, brain constantly firing in preparation for something unexpected. Like all her boyfriends, he'd been predictable... safe. And he'd let her call all the shots, until she'd walked in on him and the neighbor across the hall 'practicing yoga'. Trace was... not that. She didn't trust him, not by a long shot. He was way too good looking, for starters. And she still couldn't figure out where she'd seen him before, but there was no denying their chemistry and the fact he kept her on her toes... and she... liked that. Heck, maybe she needed it.
"The last thing you need is a two-mile walk on those blisters."
He was absolutely right, and she hated it.
He continued. "So you can argue with me all you want, but your bike's going in the back of the truck, and I'll bring you to the rodeo arena. And when I'm done, we can argue about whether you're going to insist on fixing this POS." He took the bike from her hands and easily lifted it into the rear.
