Red tried—he really did try—to hold back a laugh at the thought of a little mini-Peyton all dressed up in her Sunday finest on a daily basis. And he could perfectly picture the little brunette cutie sulking in a corner with her frills, a pretty pout on her face because she would rather tear the whole thing off and go roll in the dirt.
Peyton’s mouth curved, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. “Uh huh. Obviously you see this didn’t work out. Much to my mother’s dismay, I was just as determined to be outside with Daddy as Trace was. We were three peas in a pod. Then came Bea.”
Peyton shifted to stare out the small window behind his kitchen table. “She was the little princess my mother had been waiting for. All baby-fine blond hair and those big blue eyes. The doll she could dress up and show off to her friends. Perfection, really.” Peyton shrugged, like it didn’t matter. Red wasn’t buying it. “Trace was Daddy’s protégé. Bea fell right in line with Mama’s girly plans. I sort of just . . . hung in limbo. Wasn’t a fun place to be sometimes.”
“Why weren’t you your father’s protégé?”
She sighed. “I was still a girl. I loved my father so much. And he taught me what he knew about horses, which was plenty.” As if reading his mind, she shrugged her shoulders. “It was his business sense he struggled with. But anyway, he didn’t mind teaching me how to ride, handle life in the barn. But I was still a girl, and he never quite let go of the idea that Trace would step into his boots. Between being the oldest and being male, well . . .”
“And you never mentioned you wanted to learn how to run the ranch?”
“I didn’t want to upset the balance.” Peyton cleared her throat and shot him a sultry look. “But that’s enough of that. How about you and I see what your bed feels like?”
He let her lead him to his bed, small though it was. He had more than a few creative ways to get around the lack of square footage. But in the back of his mind, he mentally made a note to think about how upset she was with her mother and the lot she’d been handed in life. Nobody thought Peyton gave two shits about her mother. And God knew, it seemed her mother hadn’t care a damn for Peyton. Or the ranch, come right down to it. Probably didn’t care about anyone but herself. But Peyton cared. Or at least, the little girl Peyton had once been cared.
He ached for that little girl, the one in the frilly dress who wasn’t enough for her mother just by being herself, nor her father who loved her, but didn’t know what to do with her. He hated that she felt the weight of restrictions placed on her shoulders, a conditional sort of love. And he sympathized with her for that, since his own father’s affections could be bought and sold for a few grand and a good bottle of Jameson.
But Peyton wasn’t ready to bond over childhood memories. Not yet. He was prepared to wear her down though. Prepared to wait her out. He was a patient man. It made him damn good at his job. So he could afford the same sort of patience with the woman he was becoming more and more sure he wanted to spend forever with.
Taking her hand, Red led Peyton to the bed, a whole seven steps in the other direction. When her knees hit the mattress, he used one hand to guide her down gently until her feet dangled over the edge of the bed. He sat beside her, but ignored her outstretched arms. First things first. He gripped one boot and pulled until it slid off her foot, then massaged her instep a moment. Peyton groaned in response, her back arching.
“Oh my God, that is unbelievable.”
“I hear that a lot. Ouch.” He rotated his shoulder where she whacked him. “This is the treatment I get?”
“You mention other women, it’s what you get.” She only melted farther into the mattress when he switched feet. “Okay, you can say whatever you want, just don’t stop doing that.”
He laughed. “You’re making it too easy on me.”
She cracked one eyelid. “I think that’s the first time a guy has ever complained about having it easy.”
Red almost tossed her words back at her, but then his gut clenched at the thought of Peyton with another man. Call him a caveman, but he didn’t want to think about it. To take both their minds off the conversation, he worked the button to her jeans until it popped free, then the zipper. The rasp of the metal teeth giving was almost drowned out by Peyton’s accelerated breathing.
She was definitely not as immune to their chemistry as she wanted to make him believe, wanted to believe herself. She was a woman who would go to her grave attempting to convince herself one thing while feeling another. But there was no mistaking her sharp breath when he hooked his thumbs in the top of her jeans and pulled. The denim caught at her knees, then slithered to the floor with just a small push from him.