Accidentally wed to a man I’ve never met…
I inherited a freaking husband.
Grandpa’s will was a shocker: huge fortune, gorgeous ranch, and the best horse ever.
The fine print? Marrying Mr. Grump-alicious.
The man who’s supposed to protect me from…what, exactly?
That’s what I hope to find out if Drake Larkin ever talks.
I know what I’m in for the first time his glance tears me open.
A broody enigma who’s large and in charge.
A mute who curls my toes when he barks a few words.
A silly, shameful, is-this-real-life crush I can’t afford.
Did I mention our pretend marriage-rodeo lasts six damn months?
Long enough to teach my heart cartwheels.
Time enough to seal this madness with a kiss.
Insane enough for secrets to slip – and sting.
Grandpa’s last wishes scare me. So do Drake’s real motives.
But it’s my beast of a “husband” who makes ridiculous seem right.
Have I found my knight?
Does love have a prayer when life throws us a dragon?
Peachy. Another image I don’t need, being flung over Drake’s wall of a shoulder like this is some kind of crazy western romance novel or something.
He would have to say something like that, wouldn’t he? Kick this whole awkward attraction thing into overdrive.
I shake my head too fast. “Come on, it’s not that bad. Barely hurts. I’m sure it’s like my arms. The blood makes it look worse than it is.”
“So where’s the blood coming from that’s dripping on your sock?”
“What?” I lean forward to see.
It’s the only ruse, the only opening, he needs. Taking advantage of my movement, he lifts me up in one quick jerk.
Pain flares up my leg, into my thigh, and down again into my shin. I suck in a breath to counter it and to keep from squealing.
“Barely hurting now?” he says.
“Screw you,” I snap. It hurts, honestly. Stings so bad I can’t even afford to kick him where it counts.
“Not today, darlin’. No time for sexy business.”
Oh. My. God.
My other knee almost gives out. It’s mostly Drake propping me up, running his hands up my legs, and then...then we’re doing this.
“Hold on to the table so I can unbutton your jeans.”
I reach for it, all right, because that sentence nearly destroys what’s left of my poor sanity.
Thankfully, an iota of common sense prevails. “I’m not that helpless! I’ll unbutton them myself.”
“Go ahead. Unzip, too. Then push them down.”
“I don’t need step by step instructions!” I almost shout it.
Other parts of me are far too well aware how close he’s standing next to me.
How his hands feel on my waist, supposedly to steady me.
How I’m about to drop my jeans, and be standing here, in front of this total stranger I’m married to, wearing next to nothing.
The shine in his eyes says he’s enjoying this. Of-freaking-course he is.
It can’t be that bad, can it?
Maybe I can even have some fun, leave him with a lovely view he’ll never see again. Of all my ass-sets, I know what men like best, even if I’m still a hopeless virgin.
Deviancy strikes. I’ve worn less at the beach.
“Okay,” I whisper.
Then, meeting his gaze, I unbutton, unzip, and push down my jeans for Drake Larkin.