Taking the Reins(38)

He was interested. It involved her, and so he was interested. But as he wouldn’t say that out loud—for risk of her kicking his nuts up into his throat—he stayed silent.

She stared out the window of the kitchen, overlooking the stables. The building they’d just come from. “This is what I want to do—no, what I need to do—for the rest of my life. You know when you find something like that?”

“I do.”

“And you just can’t shake it?”

“Yup.”

“And it’s like, if it doesn’t work out, there’s no plan B. No backup. No contingency plan. So you have to throw everything you’ve got into it. All your cards. No holding back.” Her eyes glowed as she spoke, and he felt himself drifting closer, like a magnet drawn to its home base.

“So you don’t think there’s another option. And then things go to shit, and you suddenly wonder why you haven’t been practical before this. All the practical people have a plan B. Why don’t you?”

He slid another foot forward, moving silently over the tile floor, but it was as if she didn’t even remember he was there anymore.

“And then you find the answer of how to keep your dream alive.” She looked at him then, eyes bright and cutting straight through him with their clear honesty. “You were the answer, and I didn’t even know the question at the time.”

That did it. He broke. The adrenaline of the night, the cozy feel of snuggling up in the kitchen with his partner in crime, her words and the look in her eyes—they all mixed together to break every barrier he’d mentally placed between the two of them. Without thought, without plan, without any consideration to an alternative, he let his beer slide next to hers on the counter, framed her face in his hands, and kissed her like it was the last thing he was about to do before he died.

Zero expectations of how she’d handle it. That’d have required some forethought. But what he never would have expected, even with time to plan, was for her to throw herself into the kiss like a drowning woman grabbing onto a raft. No hesitation, not for Peyton Muldoon. She took everything he gave her, every ounce of his desire, and she shot it right back to him. A thin moan, caught low in her throat, escaped, and he couldn’t take it any longer. He let his hands skim down to her waist, hauling her against him. Letting her feel the thickness growing behind his zipper. Her legs wrapped around him, heels digging into the backs of his thighs, tugging him even closer until he was flush against the counter, nowhere else to go.

Then, as suddenly as the storm gathered, it broke. She pulled back, gasping for breath, her legs unwrapping from around him and sliding to the front, nudging him away from her.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, staring at him.

Yeah. She could say that again. He waited for her to yell at him, slap him, kick him. Something. But she just kept staring with that glazed expression of shock, like she couldn’t get over what had just happened.

Which was his cue to leave. Let her figure it out. And then slap him in the morning.

Trying for nonchalant, he nodded to the bottles sitting side by side next to her hip. “Thanks for the beer.” Then he turned and walked out of the kitchen toward the side door and out into the chilled night air, on the way back to his apartment.

Which would probably not be his much longer. He’d handed Peyton exactly what she needed to fire his ass on a silver platter. Not that he was worried about where he’d go. What he’d do. There was always a job lurking somewhere for him, even if he had to broaden his geographic search a little. No, the next thing wasn’t the issue.

It was that he didn’t want to leave.





Peyton woke with the feeling of sand in her eyes. Probably from the fact that she hadn’t had them closed for more than an hour total in the past night. First with the foal being born, which was a perfectly exciting and acceptable reason to miss out on sleep.

Then, well . . .

Damn that man!

She’d said it to herself a thousand times. Rinsing her toothbrush out in the sink, she stared hard at her reflection. Mentally willing it to look less exhausted, less haunted.

No hope there.

She should never have brought him back to the house. That was the first mistake. Peyton walked back to her dresser and started braiding one side of her hair, using a tiny elastic band to hold it in place. But inviting him to the house wasn’t the big problem. No, that was almost logical. It was business, mostly, at that point. Informing the owner the foal was born. Celebrating with a simple drink. People did it all the time. Good relationships with your staff were key to a smoothly running operation.

And then he’d done that Unthinkable Thing. And she’d liked it. Her hand paused while separating the other half of her hair into thirds. Oh God, it’d felt so good. She couldn’t even remember a time when just kissing had been so arousing.