Page 62 of Mercenary

It doesn’t help.

He runs a thumb lightly across my skin along the line of the hem of my skirt.

“Still warm,” he murmurs.

Uh, on fire. “Oklahoma summers. You know.”

To my disappointment, he removes his hand entirely. “Yeah, too goddamn well.”

“Are you hot?”

He doesn’t respond but instead shoots me a long, undecipherable look.

We fall silent, until he turns off the road leading into Dayton. “We’re making a pit stop first,” he says, before I can ask him about the change in plans.

“Hungry after all that . . . ?” Sex. I blush as my mind goes there, and it deepens when I realize that if his intentions leaned toward food, Dayton would be the best—and only—place to grab a meal.

His lips twitch. “You could say that.”

We stare at each other. Seconds pass, until his lips draw tight.

“Madelyn, don’t expect . . .”

I stiffen, and wait for him to continue.

Silence follows. He has nothing more to say, it seems. No confirmations. No denials. No reassurances about anything, including us.

I resort to staring out the window, my eyebrows lifting as I catch sight of the sign twisted and facing the wrong way. It’s bullet-riddled and hanging on a post by a thread: shelby, 5 miles.

Declan sees it—hell, there’s no missing it.

But instead of heading straight, he turns the pickup onto an unpaved side road, sending us both bouncing in our seats as the truck kicks up gravel.

I feel a prickle of anxiety roll up my spine. As far as I know, there’s no back road leading into Shelby. People take the interstate to and fro, to get in fast and leave even faster. Who can blame them?

Biting my lip, I resist asking him why he’s turned off the highway. Still slightly peeved about his subtly implying my sister might not care about me as much as I think she does. If he really knew Kylie, he wouldn’t be so bleeding wrong about her.

The pickup continues its slow crawl forward. Then he turns onto a narrow pathway cut into the wheat. A good place to hide, out here in the middle of no-man’s-land where we’re obscured by miles upon miles of golden spun stalks.

Declan parks, takes the keys out of the ignition, and tosses them onto the dashboard. Then, with an arch of his eyebrow, his full attention swings toward me.

“Slide in closer.”

I do as he asks, shifting over in the seat until my hip connects with the side of the gear shift. “Why’d you park in a hayfield?”

“Thought I’d help cool you off. You’re going for a ride.”

I smooth my skirt on my thigh, trying to steady my shaky hands. Nervous energy? Or excitement? “Out here in this hayfield?” Sex. He means sex.

“Yep.”

“A hayride?” I play along.

He reaches over and places his palm back on my thigh just above the knee. He’s got big hands. Hard and calloused. Hands of a manual worker, a farmer or construction worker. Capable hands.

Hands I want all over my body.

Heat warms my cheeks.