Swift and Saddled (Rebel Blue Ranch, #2)

by Lyla Sage

Not fucking dimples. Those should be illegal. Or at least require some sort of warning before flashing them at people. Warning: Dimples may appear and cause panty-dropping.

“Sorry about him.” His voice was close to me now. My fluffy companion wagged his tail as his owner’s footsteps approached. “He’s got a thing for beautiful women.”

Some days I wasn’t very proud to be me, but I was always proud to be my dad’s son.

But depression wasn’t a logical disease. It was an unexpected cold front in the middle of July. It was impossible to predict, which meant that I spent much of my time worrying about when the other shoe was going to drop. Not if, but when I would sink into another dark hole and have to decide to claw my way out of it. Even when I was happy, I was thinking about when I wouldn’t be.

Derail my day? I’d drive my truck off a cliff if it meant that I got a few moments alone with her, but she didn’t need to know that.

“Is this what you were thinking about? When you couldn’t take your eyes off me in the kitchen, were you thinking about touching me?” I swallowed and nodded, unsure when I decided to admit that to him—or to myself. “I see you, Ada. I always see you, even when you won’t look at me.”

I thought back to that night at the bar, how he made me smile, and how he’d made me smile every day since—even when I wasn’t kind to him. He was like the sun. No matter what, he would keep coming up.

“You are earnest and talented, tenacious and funny.” I couldn’t have looked away from him if I’d tried. His green eyes gripped me and wouldn’t let go. “I would never insult you by calling you something as generic as nice.”

At his core, Weston Ryder was gentle, and I thought that was the best thing that a man could be.

“You say you’re not nice, or warm, or bright, or any of these other stupid fucking words that people use to describe the sun, but I never asked you to be the sun.” I rolled my eyes, trying to move them in a way that would stop the tears from falling. “I would rather have the moon anyway.” I scoffed at him then. Acting like he was being ridiculous was my only defense mechanism. “I’m the moon?” I asked sarcastically. “You’re the moon,” he said. “And I’m the tides. You pull me in without even trying, and I come to you willingly. I always will.”