Page 10 of Braving the Storm

I know it isn’t for show. I’ve seen the way girls with fake tans and even faker tits will pretend to cry and clutch at you to get what they want. Jesus, I’ve had enough run-ins with manipulative cunts to know one when I see one.

My niece is nothing but genuine in her body language right now. She’s about one more piece of bad news away from dissolving like the snow outside when that sun finally gets its ass out of bed.

“Eat.” My jaw works as I try to settle on words that won’t make me sound like the world’s biggest asshole. But it is what it is really,and she needs to know that about me. “That plate is already cold, I bet, but you can shove some of it in your mouth to keep that tongue busy instead of yelping at me. I’m not interested in wasting good food on prissy little city princesses.”

That seems to stir a little life back into her, and she lets out a snarl, but at least begins to eat.

More to the point, she starts off slow, pecking at her plate like a sparrow. I watch on as Briar cuts herself polite, dainty bites and diabolically small pieces before giving in to the hunger as she ends up inhaling her breakfast. Making tiny noises of pleasure the entire time that screw with my already messed up head.

As she eats, I try to remember the last time I saw my niece, who is looking decidedly un-niece-like, and instead, is a whole lot like the type of woman I would be content to explore with my tongue until she screams my name.

I readjust myself in my seat. Fuck. This girl is young. Much younger than me, at any rate. Much younger than a forty-year-old has any business looking at.

I hate that I’m fucking forty. Also, very surprised that I’m still here to see that number.

There were plenty of days when I’d convinced myself I’d never make it past my twenties.

Turns out the pro circuit, sponsors, and endorsements don’t want anything to do with a bull rider surrounded by certain kinds of rumors.

They dropped me like a cold cup of sick, leaving me with nothing.

One day, I was winning buckles and being begged for my autograph every five seconds, the next, my phone stopped ringing and my name was quietly removed from every competition event in the country.

Fuck all of them.

I survived on my own.

And now, what do I have to show for my sins? A girl sitting atmy table, sleeping in my bed, bearing my last name—even if it’s not by blood—and a head full of extremely impure thoughts.

Goddamn filthy thoughts I gotta figure the fuck out how to tame. I can’t go walking around with a permanent hard-on in front of my own niece. Or so much fucking worse,becauseof my own niece.

Jesus.

She scrapes her plate clean, then sits for a moment, chewing thoughtfully.

“I needed that. Thank you,” she says, quietly. Almost to herself.

Something glows inside my chest hearing her say those words, and I quickly tell it to shut the fuck up.

Niece.

She’s yourniece.

Erik’s daughter.

Yeah, that’ll do it. The mere thought of my brother’s name is a surefire way to replace any misguided notions I might be experiencing with pure anger.

“Can I make some more coffee before we have this conversation?”

I nod. “Do what you want, I gotta get some more firewood anyway.”

A little timespent outside in the crunching ice and crisp first days of Spring does wonders to clear my foggy head. I split a bit more kindling and take my time loading up the firewood supply both inside the cabin and on the wraparound porch.

By the time I’ve done all that and clomp my way back inside, kicking off my boots at the door, I find Briar on tiptoes, leaning over the bench top, exploring the pantry cupboards. Only problem is, she’s gotten changed in the time I’ve been outdoors.

Now she’s wearing pale jeans and an expensive-looking camel-color jersey, probably cashmere or some shit, and fuck me. This girl has got a body to worship. Curvy and sexy and a whole lot of other descriptive words I evidently need to scrub from my brain.

None of which are appropriate for the cold, hard fact this girl is not supposed to even be on my radar.