Lost Rider Read online

  Kicking the package at the door with my toe, I bend down and lift the mat to grab the key, pulling back the old screen and unlocking the door. My mind continues to churn as I bend to replace to key and pick up the box--judging by the logo-printed tape, another impulsive Amazon purchase that I didn't really need. Stepping inside, I quickly kick off my heels and settle my feet down on the cold hardwood, letting my arches have a moment of bliss. As much as I love the way my legs look when I wear those beauties, I would much rather be wearing boots or chucks.

  I wasn't kidding earlier when I told Maverick that I stopped dressing to impress years ago. Even though now I actually have a body worth showing off, I still feel like that little girl playing dress up. I would much rather just be me.

  "Hey, baby," I coo, a smile hitting my face when I feel the comforting furry caress against my shins. Bending down, I pick up my beefy cat, Earl, making sure to scratch him behind his left ear. His purrs greet my ears, breaking through the silence around me. Earl is the only thing that makes living alone bearable. I hate the silence that suffocates me when I'm home, which is probably why I spend so much of my time at the PieHole.

  At the PieHole the only thing we serve is pie, so it isn't your typical bakery. It's so much more than that. Over the years, I've been able to turn my obsession with making pies into one of the best specialty shops around. It started as a way to keep my mama's memory alive--to feel like she was still with me--and to ease that ache I felt daily with her absence. I wouldn't say that owning a bakery is something I always dreamed of, but it was her dream, and when I lost her, I found my happiness in making her dream a reality. I've been lucky, and now people come from all over the South just to grab some of my famous pies. Quinn jokes that it's my secret "recipies," something I won't even tell her about, but I like to think it's just my mama looking out for me from above--giving my creations a little dash of herself that make them so memorable everyone craves the feeling they get with each bite. We get people from all the way over in Georgia and all the way up to Canada.

  Leaving the entryway, I move from the front door, around the love seat and coffee table, trying to decide where I want to settle; I finally choose the deep-seated couch. Earl's purrs intensify as I cuddle him close and continue to scratch behind his ear. He's a beast, but I love holding him close to my chest, or as close as you can get a twenty-pound Maine coon. He looks more like a small bobcat than a domestic house pet, but I love the little fur ball.

  With a deep sigh, still petting him softly, I look around my home.

  With the sudden appearance of Maverick back in Pine Oak, I can't stop my mind from playing loops upon loops of old memories. Not just of him, but of my parents too. Because our past is so interwoven, I should have seen this coming, but the pain the memories bring is greater than I could have ever anticipated. I feel the loss of my parents like it was just days and not years since they've been gone. My eyes roam over the room, looking for subtle hints of them.

  For the first year after they were gone, I couldn't even stand to be here, the pain of their loss too great to stand. We had lived comfortably my whole life, and my father's thriving horse breeding business meant the house I grew up in was paid off. I was left with more money than I would ever spend in my lifetime because of their planning, but it was money I would have gladly given away to have them back. After selling our land to the Davis family, aside from the ten acres that my house sat on, that money grew even larger. It was Clay's idea to remodel my childhood home. I had never felt right spending that money, but he reminded me that my parents had worked hard to make sure I would always be taken care of--even if they weren't around. It was his idea that made it easier for me to be here, because once the house no longer resembled my childhood home, it stopped being a constant reminder of what I'd lost.

  The first thing we did was take two of the back bedrooms and knock out some walls, turning my old en suite into a bathroom fit for a luxury spa, complete with a tub of my dreams. Big enough to fit two people--not that I've had that opportunity in a long while. By freeing up what had been one of the two guest rooms, my room now had a walk-in closet that I would probably never fill completely. We took my childhood bedroom and made it into a woman's dream dwelling: white-and-lavender accents with the palest of purple walls completed the look, giving me a soft, feminine room that looked nothing like the teenage cave it had been.

  The other guest room we left alone, but gave it a fresh coat of light yellow paint and new furniture. It was simple but cozy.

  It was another year after we finished those rooms until I was ready to clean out my parents' old bedroom. Since their room took up half of the front of the house, opposite to the large family room, we decided to turn it into two rooms. It took awhile, since we were taking the old bathroom and converting it into a smaller guest bathroom that attached to one of the newly framed guest rooms. The rest of the space was turned into a library, a small one, but one with shelves lining every wall with two huge cozy chairs, separated only by a small end table in the middle. There was no doorway, just a double-wide arched entryway.

  It was--aside from the PieHole--my favorite place to be.

  Since Quinn spent more time here than she did at her family's home, she had taken over the drawers and closet in the front guest room. I didn't mind because when she was here, she made the silence disappear.

  With the bedrooms all on the right side of the ranch, the left side was left for a welcoming open floor plan of the living room that feeds into my kitchen. My kitchen would probably give Paula Deen wet panties. Aside from my library, this room is where I spend most of my time--well, when I'm not at the PieHole. I make sure that I can bake here and transport so that I'm able to break up a normally very long workday at the bakery. There really is no smell better than all four ovens in my kitchen cooking away and my ten-foot island covered in delicious pies.

  It took a lot of money and tears to completely change what was once my family home. Now the only things left from my childhood are little knickknacks and family photos. But even with all the changes, that ache still roars loud on days like this when memories assault me.

  "I miss them, Earl," I murmur, and give him a good scratch next to his tail.

  It's been almost seven years since they passed, but I still swear I can hear them sometimes. The click of Daddy's boots when he would come in from a long day working the fields, Mama's pots and pans clinking in the kitchen, or even their soft laughter and kisses when they didn't think I was around to see. Not that I ever minded.

  When I lost them, this place stopped feeling like home. Even after the remodel, it's just a house, a shell of the happiness that used to hang thick in that air. It doesn't matter how many bright and cheerful coats of paint are thrown on the walls, sometimes you can't force the light when there are too many shadows blocking the way.

  "Come on, old man, let's go get changed," I tell Earl, tired of feeling sad and sorry for myself, standing from the couch and walking toward my bedroom.

  "Meow," he purrs and I look into his green eyes with a smile.

  I continue to pet him as I walk through the house, talking to him in soft tones as his purrs respond to my words. Not for the first time, I realize I'm turning into the crazy cat lady.

  "I really need to get out more, Earl," I muse.

  "Meow."

  "Yeah . . . first chance I get Mama's getting out of the house for some human time."

  "Meow," he calls out again.

  I place him on the end of my bed and he immediately circles a few times before laying down in the middle, like he always does, the king of his domain.

  "Maybe the first thing I need to do is get a bigger bed to make up for all the space you take up," I say with a laugh, reaching behind me to awkwardly unzip my dress. The second the zipper is released, I feel like I can finally take a deep breath. I turn to the mirror and take in my full chest.

  Getting a boob job when I turned nineteen was probably the worst idea I ever had. Not only was I deal
ing with the loss of my parents, but also the depression I had sunk into made me think only of every other heartbreaking thing I had ever experienced.

  My lifelong battle to love and accept my body, for instance.

  When it became painfully obvious that my boobs would never look more than mosquito bites on my chest, I let a weak moment after the end of another failed relationship convince me I wasn't enough, and before I knew it I was lying on my back in an operating room getting silicone stuffed into my chest. To be fair, it probably had very little to do with getting dumped and more to do with the grief I hadn't been able to shake. A person does stupid things when she's stuck in the fog of painful hurt.

  Of course, as luck would have it, I was one of those girls that finished developing in my early twenties. Taking that boob job and doubling it, leaving me with an E cup that was the bane of my existence. Hell, I never even knew there were letters past D in the breast size alphabet until mine morphed out of control. It took me a year with those bad boys before I was back in the operating room. I still have implants, but they're nowhere near what they were, leaving me with a full D cup. Still, even though they're not as big, they are big enough to be a pain in my ass . . . or shoulders, neck, and back, rather.

  I bend and twist, trying to work out the kinks. I reach behind my head, gathering my thick blond locks together as I grab a hair tie off my dresser. I open my top drawer and reach for the bright red lace bra, covering my naked chest before slipping out of my thong and pulling the matching lace boy shorts over my hips. Just because I choose to dress for comfort doesn't mean I don't love looking and feeling all woman with my lingerie. Even if I have to go to extraordinary lengths--and costs--to have sexy lingerie in my generous cup size.

  Checking the clock hanging next to the door, I curse myself for getting so lost in my own head. As it is, I'm going to be rushing to get everything warmed up in time.

  I wriggle into the first pair of shorts I can find, not even paying attention and I step into them and button them up.

  I pull my red PieHole T-shirt off the hanger and yank it over my head, cursing my haste when my ponytail loosens, allowing my thick hair to escape in places.

  "Lord have mercy!" I shout when I almost pull my ear off trying to rush yet another ponytail. I feel like the underside of a turnip green with the way my nerves are bubbling over.

  And I know exactly what--or, should I say, who--is the cause.

  Earl eyes me when I step out of the closet and exhale in a huff of frustration. "What? Quick lookin' at me like I'm lower than a snake's belly in a mud rut, Earl! It's been a long day; I'm allowed to be a little frazzled."

  He just stares a beat before lifting his leg and licking himself.

  Grabbing my red cowboy boots off the floor, I sit on the bench at the end of my bed and pull on some socks before pushing my foot inside the worn leather. A vision of sixteen-year-old me, nervously pulling at the knot in my flannel shirt, flashes in my head when I catch my reflection in the mirror in the corner of my room and I quickly beat it back. I've had enough of tripping down memory lane and I refuse to give Maverick any more power.

  "Love you, baby boy," I call to Earl and rush through my door, snatching my purse off one of the island chairs in the kitchen.

  I start digging inside of my bag while stomping through the kitchen and living room, looking down as I pull the front door open, and cursing the fact that my Jeep keys always seem to go missing inside my purse's depths.

  "Damn it all to hell!" I shout when I collide headfirst into a hard chest the second my boots hit the threshold, knocking me back until my ass painfully hits the floor. "Son of a bitch," I breathe as a sharp pain shoots up my back from where my tailbone painfully smacked against the unforgiving hardwood just inside my door.

  I look up and gasp when I see the reason for my tumble before quickly getting my face under control to something resembling calm and collected, despite the scene I've just created, and raising a brow in question. He doesn't speak, but takes a step closer and bends slightly to offer me his hand.

  "You should learn to look before opening your door," Maverick says in a voice that's deep and rusty, making me fight off a shiver of arousal.

  "If that's an apology, you really need to work on your execution."

  His mouth turns up on one side, his full lips mockingly saying without words that an apology was not his intention.

  Agh, that good-for-nothing, arrogant, stubborn asshole.

  "You know, while you're at it, you should add workin' on your manners too. You really seem to be lackin' in that area," I retort sarcastically, ignoring his proffered hand and climbing to my feet, rubbing the sore spot on my ass.

  "Guess I'll add that to the list of other shit my mama never taught me," he drawls.

  I bend over and grab my purse before standing straight, squaring my shoulders and meeting his eyes. His expression doesn't change as he brings up one tan hand to tip his hat back slightly, allowing me a better view of those bright green eyes the Davis kids are known for.

  "What are you doing here, Maverick?" I ask on a sigh. "I'm runnin' late and need to get out of here."

  "Figured I needed to stop by," he says in way of an answer.

  That's all? What in the hell does that mean?

  "Then I would reckon we aren't on the same page, because I'm not sure I would agree with you there."

  "You gonna let me in or what?"

  I let out a humorless laugh. "Or what." Pulling my purse over my shoulder, I reach out and press both palms against his stomach and give him a shove backward, mentally screaming at myself not to enjoy the way his rock-hard abs feel against my hands. Nope, not going to enjoy that one bit.

  Christ, he feels like hot stone under my skin.

  Focus, Leighton!

  He allows me to push him back a step. I shut the door hard enough that the sound rings out like a gunshot. When I turn back, I notice he's been holding the screen door open with his leg, and I raise my brow in question as he continues to prop it open.

  "Mind letting go of my door? I've got places to be," I snap, pretty proud of the fact that my voice sounds a lot calmer than I feel--well, if bitchy is calm.

  He moves his leg, letting the screen crack against the door frame, but doesn't make another move to let me walk past him down the porch steps he's blocking.

  "Are you going to speak?" I heatedly complain when it becomes clear that he's either become mute in the past few seconds or is intentionally being an even bigger ass.

  "I was out of line earlier. Just wanted you to know."

  My jaw drops as I stare up at him dumbly. Are we serious right now?

  "You were out of line?"

  "That's what I said, darlin'," he responds, crossing his arms over his chest and squaring his stance. I look down, seeing the fabric of his shirt stretch against his thick biceps. The long sleeves are folded and pushed up to his elbows, making the veins in his forearms stand out as they pulse thickly. It takes one hell of an effort on my part not to lick my lips at that sight.

  Who would have thought that veins could be sexy? I bet if I ran my tongue up their length, he would taste delicious. Wait--no! Shit, he hasn't even been back long enough for his engine to cool down and I'm right back where I was ten years ago, lusting after him even though I sure as hell know better now.

  I tear my eyes away from his forearms--those sexy, hot, lickable--dadgum, Leighton, snap out of it!

  "I'm not your darlin'. It's Leighton, and you best remember that, cowboy," I harshly whisper before poking him in the chest. He needs to stop calling me that or I'll be putty in his hands. Is there anything sexier than a deep southern drawl uttering the word "darlin' "? Nope--there isn't, which is why he needs to stop that immediately.

  "Cowboy?" he questions, unfolding his arms to swat my hand away. "Jesus Christ, would you stop doing that shit?"

  "Look," I huff, taking a page out of his book and crossing my arms over my chest. "I don't know why you felt like you needed to come
out here. So you said some callous things earlier, whatever, I'm over it."

  "You ain't over shit, darlin'," he says, laughing.

  "Leighton. You don't know me well enough to be dropping those 'darlin's!' " I yell, fighting the urge to stomp my foot and have a conniption fit, ignoring the way my body is burning with arousal. He has got to stop calling me that; just hearing that word spoken in his deep velvet voice is enough to make me want to start dry humping the air.

  "Yeah. Like I said, you ain't over shit. I was out of line. We need to put it behind us so I can go back to the ranch."

  His words hit me, the meaning clear, and I'm suddenly even more pissed than I was just a second before.

  "So you can go back to the ranch?"

  "That's what I said."

  "Why, you good-for-nothing jerk. You didn't come over here to apologize for showing your ass, but to what? You get put in time-out by Clay? Or Quinn? You could have saved us both the trouble and just driven around in that flashy little truck of yours for a red-hot minute before heading back and reporting to them like a good little boy that you had done as ordered."

  "Now, you listen here--" he starts, stepping forward, our chests just a foot apart.

  "Oh, I don't think so, mister. You might think the sun came up just to hear you crow, but I assure you that I don't need your cocky ass lighting my doorstep. How's this? Go on back and tell them that I accepted your 'apology' and agreed to let bygones be bygones."

  His brow shoots up with my air quotes and I watch the anger flash in his eyes, turning the bright green into a murky storm.

  I don't give him a second longer before I edge around him and stomp to my Jeep. One booted foot on the running board later, I'm behind the wheel and turning up dirt as I whip the wheel and speed down my gravel drive.

  Who the hell does he think he is? And what in the hell was that back there about? And more important, how do I convince my body that it's a bad idea to lust over Maverick Davis again?