Cash (Lucky River Ranch, #1)

by Jessica Peterson

“We got time,” Cash says softly. “All day, as a matter of fact.” Swallowing, I manage a scoff. “You’re really good at that.” “Good at what?” “Reading my mind.” I put my hands on his shoulders. He helps me get down from the counter, hands still on my hips. “I pay attention.” Stickiness runs down the inside of my leg. My eyes catch on my bruised wrists. The bite on my shoulder smarts. This man is wrecking me. Claiming me so that every time I move—every breath I take—I think of him. I’m hit by the urge to cry. Not because I’m sad, but because I’m just so overwhelmed by Cash’s ardent attention. The things he makes me feel are big and loud, and it’s terrifying to think I’ve stepped over some kind of boundary, walked off some kind of cliff, without even realizing it. And I know it’s too late to go back, because the last thing I want to do is the sane thing—the safe thing—and leave. I turn back to the stove and light the burner. I don’t have to ask Cash if he wants cheese in his omelet or hot sauce on the side. He doesn’t have to ask me if I want cream and sugar in my coffee. We know each other now. I like knowing Cash this way. I manage a smile. “I love it.”