The Patriot A Small Town Romance - Jennifer Millikin Page 0,35

none of them have anything to do with PTSD. When I’m around Wes, my entire body feels like it’s been shocked with electrical voltage.

“Honestly, the only thing I can sense is how much he loves his land and his ranch and his cowboys.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “And he can wear a pair of jeans like nobody’s business.”

Abby cackles and hoots. “I think I might have to get some tight cowboy jeans for Armando.”

I crack up thinking of khaki slacks wearing Armando in tight jeans. Abby shoots me a dirty look and pulls over the brownie pan. She presses a finger to the top to see if they’re cool enough to slice. They must be, because she cuts them into nine squares and places one on a plate, then slides it to me.

She circles the island and puts an arm around me. “We’ll miss you, but I have a feeling you’re about to embark on quite the adventure. A hot, tortured cowboy?” She fans herself with her hand.

I roll my eyes, but my stomach flips at the thought of Wes. “Stop.”

“I will not,” she answers in her big sister voice. She squeezes my shoulders with the arm she has wrapped around me and then releases me. My teeth sink into the brownie at the same time she reaches the back door and opens it, leaning out and yelling, “Brownies, girls.”

Emerson and Taylor run in. Taylor gives me a hug, but Emerson hangs back. “You aren’t my favorite person this week,” she explains.

“Got it,” I tell her, winking. She hides her smile behind a cupped hand.

Abby sets two plates with brownies down on the table, then whips around as if a thought has just occurred to her. “Who’s going to try my food before I put it on the blog?”

A second bite of the surprisingly delicious brownie is in my mouth, so I cover it with a hand and say, “I’m sure it won’t be too hard to convince your husband.”

Abby makes a face, then looks around like someone might overhear us, and says, “I like you better.”

I laugh, a big belly laugh, and then it nearly devolves into tears, because under my excitement is fear to take on a project so large.

And to think, four days ago my biggest problems were debt and a broken high heel.

For the record, I still have both those problems.

12

Wes

The truck bumps along the winding road down from the mountain and into town. At the same time, my fingers on my right hand stamp out a rhythm on my thigh. It’s been two weeks since Dakota was here. We signed the purchase agreement and our attorney took care of the rest. The dinner meeting we’re headed to now is just icing on the proverbial cake.

“You alright, Wes?” Dad glances over at me from behind the wheel. He’s wearing his nice shirt, the one with the pearlescent buttons, and his tan suede cowboy hat. He’d asked my mom to join us, but she was too busy with Warner’s kids. Something about ‘grandma time.’ The woman was tougher than rawhide when we were growing up, but she melts like ice cream in the sun when it comes to her grandbabies.

My hand stills. “I’m fine, Dad.”

After a moment, Dad says, “Dakota seems like a good woman. Smart, strong, takes pride in her work.”

I prop my elbow on the passenger door and look out the window. “Are you going somewhere with your commentary?”

“You can be an ass when you want to, you know that?”

I sigh. Of course I know that. I just don’t know how to not be one, not when I feel like I’m being pushed. It hasn’t escaped my attention, or anybody else who has functioning eyeballs, that Dakota is the whole package. A smug grin fights to break onto my face as I think of the things I know about her that all those other people don’t.

Like how impatient she becomes when fingers trail up the inside of her thigh.

I cough and act like I’m adjusting my belt buckle, but what I’m really doing is making more room in the front of my jeans. It’s one of many reactions I have to thoughts of Dakota, including the uncomfortable thing my chest does when I think of her. It tightens and loosens at the same time, like it’s trying to hold on to the feeling but also relax enough to enjoy it.

“I can’t change the stipulations of HCC ownership, Son. Do you ever think about that? About