hadn’t.
Because her brother leaving had turned the family upside down. Because at sixteen years old, she’d wanted to right it. Giving her father what he wanted was the only way she’d known how. And here she was, thirty-two, sweating through a gorgeous suit that had cost her a fortune by running away from the man she’d worked her whole life to please.
That right there was what it was like to be a Campbell. That right there was what she had to show for her years. She pulled her hand free and pushed to her feet, swiped at her eyes and pretended the moisture was perspiration. No, that it was sweat.
Goddamn improper sweat. “I’m sorry. I probably should’ve had you ice my coffee. I’m feeling pretty flushed.”
Josh was around the desk in seconds, lowering her into her seat as though she were a rare sort of flower. As though she, Darcy Francis Campbell, mattered even without her last name, and certainly without her degree. “Sit. Take off your jacket. I’ll get you some ice water.”
She shrugged out of the jacket, felt the silk of her blouse peel away from her armpits. Ugh. What she needed was her ice water served in a shower, or in the Olympic-sized pool at home. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not today, and probably never again.
Since she’d just decided she didn’t live there anymore.
ELEVEN
A S A RWEN BRAKED to a stop in front of the Dalton ranch house, parking next to a truck with a magnetic sign for Lasko’s on the door, the pans in her floorboard shifted forward and threatened to spill. She bit off a sharp, “Oh, crap,” breathing easier once everything had settled.
The jostling sent the smells of barbecue sauce and smoked baby-back ribs and
borracho
beans with jalapeños to fill the cab, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Food in front of her all day long, yet she couldn’t get away from the business of her business long enough to eat.
Oh, she’d snag a strip of grilled chicken breast when walking through the kitchen, or a carrot before it found itself grated into a salad, a slice of garlic toast hot from the oven because she couldn’t resist the buttery smell. But lately she’d been more distracted than usual—a condition she blamed on Dax.
Most specifically, she blamed it on his crawling into her bed the other morning and staying after she’d told him to go. She’d fallen asleep with him wrapped around her, and she’d slept so deeply, so soundly, she’d expected him to be there when her alarm went off. Expected, and been disappointed to find herself alone.
She still hadn’t figured out where the disappointment had come from. He’d given her what she wanted: A good fucking. That should’ve been enough. And it was enough. She knew that. She didn’t need to be cuddled. She didn’t need his comforting weight, or to be soothed by his breathing beside her.
What she did need was to put her finger on the reason why her plan to work him out of her system wasn’t the quick and easy setting one more piece of her past behind her she’d thought it would be. On the one hand, she didn’t mind. Sex with Dax… Where to begin?
It wasn’t even about his body, which he used so well, or about the orgasms he never failed to deliver. Defining what made sex with Dax seem like more than sex was beyond her. And looking too hard for an answer made too much of their physical compatibility when that was all she was interested in.
But that same compatibility had put a kink in her well-laid plans. And that was the part she
did
mind. She’d worked hard to shed where she’d come from. And she didn’t want anything—or anyone—to get in the way of where she wanted to go from here.
Then again, she really should lighten up. What she had with Dax wouldn’t last forever. Crow Hill was too small for them to go their separate ways, but it was her home, not his. Honestly, she didn’t give him more than six months before he ditched Boone and Casper and returned to parts
Because her brother leaving had turned the family upside down. Because at sixteen years old, she’d wanted to right it. Giving her father what he wanted was the only way she’d known how. And here she was, thirty-two, sweating through a gorgeous suit that had cost her a fortune by running away from the man she’d worked her whole life to please.
That right there was what it was like to be a Campbell. That right there was what she had to show for her years. She pulled her hand free and pushed to her feet, swiped at her eyes and pretended the moisture was perspiration. No, that it was sweat.
Goddamn improper sweat. “I’m sorry. I probably should’ve had you ice my coffee. I’m feeling pretty flushed.”
Josh was around the desk in seconds, lowering her into her seat as though she were a rare sort of flower. As though she, Darcy Francis Campbell, mattered even without her last name, and certainly without her degree. “Sit. Take off your jacket. I’ll get you some ice water.”
She shrugged out of the jacket, felt the silk of her blouse peel away from her armpits. Ugh. What she needed was her ice water served in a shower, or in the Olympic-sized pool at home. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not today, and probably never again.
Since she’d just decided she didn’t live there anymore.
ELEVEN
A S A RWEN BRAKED to a stop in front of the Dalton ranch house, parking next to a truck with a magnetic sign for Lasko’s on the door, the pans in her floorboard shifted forward and threatened to spill. She bit off a sharp, “Oh, crap,” breathing easier once everything had settled.
The jostling sent the smells of barbecue sauce and smoked baby-back ribs and
borracho
beans with jalapeños to fill the cab, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Food in front of her all day long, yet she couldn’t get away from the business of her business long enough to eat.
Oh, she’d snag a strip of grilled chicken breast when walking through the kitchen, or a carrot before it found itself grated into a salad, a slice of garlic toast hot from the oven because she couldn’t resist the buttery smell. But lately she’d been more distracted than usual—a condition she blamed on Dax.
Most specifically, she blamed it on his crawling into her bed the other morning and staying after she’d told him to go. She’d fallen asleep with him wrapped around her, and she’d slept so deeply, so soundly, she’d expected him to be there when her alarm went off. Expected, and been disappointed to find herself alone.
She still hadn’t figured out where the disappointment had come from. He’d given her what she wanted: A good fucking. That should’ve been enough. And it was enough. She knew that. She didn’t need to be cuddled. She didn’t need his comforting weight, or to be soothed by his breathing beside her.
What she did need was to put her finger on the reason why her plan to work him out of her system wasn’t the quick and easy setting one more piece of her past behind her she’d thought it would be. On the one hand, she didn’t mind. Sex with Dax… Where to begin?
It wasn’t even about his body, which he used so well, or about the orgasms he never failed to deliver. Defining what made sex with Dax seem like more than sex was beyond her. And looking too hard for an answer made too much of their physical compatibility when that was all she was interested in.
But that same compatibility had put a kink in her well-laid plans. And that was the part she
did
mind. She’d worked hard to shed where she’d come from. And she didn’t want anything—or anyone—to get in the way of where she wanted to go from here.
Then again, she really should lighten up. What she had with Dax wouldn’t last forever. Crow Hill was too small for them to go their separate ways, but it was her home, not his. Honestly, she didn’t give him more than six months before he ditched Boone and Casper and returned to parts
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