wrists—right past her gawking cameraman, who, naturally, got the whole thing on film—two things occurred to Bobbi. One: the sheriff hadn’t arrested Trey. What a sexist double standard. Weren’t they equally guilty of this theoretical crime? And two: if she didn’t get her shit together right now, hooking would be the only job she’d ever be able to find. She had to figure out how to stay away from Trey and his siren call of sex. For real this time.
Well, just as soon as he posted her bail.
Chapter 7
Trey propped both elbows on the slate countertop and glared at his coffeemaker in an effort to coerce it into dripping faster. Stifling a yawn, he scrubbed his bleary eyes and groaned at the prospect of another twelve-hour day on the job with nothing fueling him but the stale Folgers he’d found at the bottom of the pantry. Until this week, he’d never been a coffee drinker—had seen caffeine addiction as a weakness—but he needed that sludge more than air today.
Between bouts of fitful sleep and waking “up” with a boner every few hours, these friggin’ sex dreams were going to kill him, especially now that he knew the feel of Bobbi’s slick heat and the softness of her palm wrapped around him. How was he supposed to spend the next two months around her with that memory tickling his johnson? Because he’d never, ever forget. Unfortunately, neither would Bobbi, which explained why she still wasn’t speaking to him.
She wouldn’t even let him apologize, and he felt awful. The worst part was that he hadn’t been able to do anything to help her that night except fetch Colton, who’d ridden to the rescue and plucked Bobbi from the sheriff’s paddy wagon like a knight in shining shit-kickers. She’d been so grateful to Colt, she’d kissed him everywhere but on the mouth—just a dusting of pecks, but it still hit Trey like a punch to the junk. He and Bobbi had skipped first base and gone straight to third, so she’d never kissed him, and it’d chapped his ass to see her lips smacking all over Colt’s gloating face.
The phone rang, and Trey closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and filling his nose with the pungent scent of strong coffee. It was probably his mom, and he had no intention of picking up to hear the latest installment of As the Divorce Turns . In the most recent development, the Colonel had offered Mom seventy percent of their liquid assets in exchange for a quick break, but she’d refused and nearly given her lawyer a stroke in the process.
“Hey, asshole,” Luke’s voice grumbled from the ancient answering machine in the other room. “Pick up, so I can apologize.”
Trey smiled despite his lousy mood. He answered the cordless phone in the kitchen. “Let’s hear it then.”
“Don’t be a dick. I’m sorry.” Luke paused to swallow, probably sipping his own coffee. “We cool?”
“Yeah, we’re cool.”
“Cool.”
Trey suddenly appreciated how guys didn’t need a twelve-step program to get over a fight like women did. He pulled a mug down from the counter and watched the last few drops trickle into his Mr. Coffee carafe.
“Hey,” Luke said without a trace of resentment in his voice, another reason men were better company after a fight. “I need to talk to you about Bo.”
Trey froze with his fingers clenched around the mug handle. “’Bout what?”
“Did something happen to her in the last few days?”
Before or after she got busted with my dick in her hand? “Not that I know of. Why?”
“She’s acting weird. Rearranging shit and organizing the whole house. I went to grab some batteries out of the—”
“—junk drawer.” Where every man kept the batteries.
“Right. But she moved ’em, along with my duct tape and box cutter.”
“Dude, what sinister plans are you cookin’ up this morning?” Trey teased.
“That’s not the point. I can’t find a damned thing in my own house. Plus, she’s all jittery and being pissy with me.”
“Probably
Well, just as soon as he posted her bail.
Chapter 7
Trey propped both elbows on the slate countertop and glared at his coffeemaker in an effort to coerce it into dripping faster. Stifling a yawn, he scrubbed his bleary eyes and groaned at the prospect of another twelve-hour day on the job with nothing fueling him but the stale Folgers he’d found at the bottom of the pantry. Until this week, he’d never been a coffee drinker—had seen caffeine addiction as a weakness—but he needed that sludge more than air today.
Between bouts of fitful sleep and waking “up” with a boner every few hours, these friggin’ sex dreams were going to kill him, especially now that he knew the feel of Bobbi’s slick heat and the softness of her palm wrapped around him. How was he supposed to spend the next two months around her with that memory tickling his johnson? Because he’d never, ever forget. Unfortunately, neither would Bobbi, which explained why she still wasn’t speaking to him.
She wouldn’t even let him apologize, and he felt awful. The worst part was that he hadn’t been able to do anything to help her that night except fetch Colton, who’d ridden to the rescue and plucked Bobbi from the sheriff’s paddy wagon like a knight in shining shit-kickers. She’d been so grateful to Colt, she’d kissed him everywhere but on the mouth—just a dusting of pecks, but it still hit Trey like a punch to the junk. He and Bobbi had skipped first base and gone straight to third, so she’d never kissed him, and it’d chapped his ass to see her lips smacking all over Colt’s gloating face.
The phone rang, and Trey closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and filling his nose with the pungent scent of strong coffee. It was probably his mom, and he had no intention of picking up to hear the latest installment of As the Divorce Turns . In the most recent development, the Colonel had offered Mom seventy percent of their liquid assets in exchange for a quick break, but she’d refused and nearly given her lawyer a stroke in the process.
“Hey, asshole,” Luke’s voice grumbled from the ancient answering machine in the other room. “Pick up, so I can apologize.”
Trey smiled despite his lousy mood. He answered the cordless phone in the kitchen. “Let’s hear it then.”
“Don’t be a dick. I’m sorry.” Luke paused to swallow, probably sipping his own coffee. “We cool?”
“Yeah, we’re cool.”
“Cool.”
Trey suddenly appreciated how guys didn’t need a twelve-step program to get over a fight like women did. He pulled a mug down from the counter and watched the last few drops trickle into his Mr. Coffee carafe.
“Hey,” Luke said without a trace of resentment in his voice, another reason men were better company after a fight. “I need to talk to you about Bo.”
Trey froze with his fingers clenched around the mug handle. “’Bout what?”
“Did something happen to her in the last few days?”
Before or after she got busted with my dick in her hand? “Not that I know of. Why?”
“She’s acting weird. Rearranging shit and organizing the whole house. I went to grab some batteries out of the—”
“—junk drawer.” Where every man kept the batteries.
“Right. But she moved ’em, along with my duct tape and box cutter.”
“Dude, what sinister plans are you cookin’ up this morning?” Trey teased.
“That’s not the point. I can’t find a damned thing in my own house. Plus, she’s all jittery and being pissy with me.”
“Probably
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