Page 8 of Resisting Isaac

She glances down at my large hand encircling her delicate wrist then up into my eyes. Whatever she sees in them has her licking her lips then inhaling deeply.

I lean in to speak closer to her ear. “What does a tie mean for the bet? We calling it even or do you want a rematch?”

Flames flicker behind her stare. “Where I come from, a tie means we both win. So we’ll take turns. Equal amounts of time using the reins however we each see fit.”

We’re so close, I catch the scent of bourbon, beer, and a faint floral scent that must be her perfume. Or maybe it’s just her. Whatever it is, it makes my mouth water and I’m aching for a taste.

“My truck is out front,” I say evenly. “Unless you need to make an appearance for your adoring fans first.”

She sways closer to me, and I realize I haven’t released her wrist. And she hasn’t pulled it from my grasp.

“I just got a text that my hotel room is ready. It’s only a few blocks away.”

There’s only one decent hotel nearby. “I know exactly where it is.”

She nods. “Then lead the way, cowboy.”

“With pleasure, prin—” I stop myself, recalling that bull riding performance she just gave. The way she gives as good as she gets, spitting fire at me. “Spitfire.”

Her answering grin tells me I got it right this time. “That’s more like it.”

CHAPTER FOUR

elena

Giddy isn’t typically a word I’d use to describe myself. Except for at this moment as we drive to my hotel in a black Dodge Ram. There’s some kind of logo with a bull skull on the door, but I can’t make any words out.

When my irresistible cowboy helps me into the passenger seat, I think he’s going to kiss me.

He doesn’t and the anticipation of not knowing when or if he will, is making me crazy.

We haven’t exchanged names. Or professions. Or any details at all. And yet, there really are reins in the backseat of the extended cab. He wasn’t kidding earlier. This is going to happen, and it is going to happen soon.

I’m wound tight from the anxiety of coming here, still tense from the traveling and the conversation with my mother. I hope this isn’t going to be an awkward encounter like the one with Diego.

By the time we pull into a parking lot in front of The Wayfarer Inn, I’m practically vibrating with anticipation. I’ll probably come the minute he breathes near me.

“I checked in earlier, but I still have to get a key from thefront desk,” I say as he holds the truck door open for me, surprised at how soft and nervous my typically clear voice sounds.

He only nods and gestures for me to lead the way.

The Wayfarer looks like it’s built from the woods surrounding Main Street.

All dark wood paneling, wrought iron fixtures, and slow-drifting jazz piping through the lobby. It’s elegant in that old-world, frontier-meets-art-deco way, like someone spent a fortune making it feel like a whiskey-soaked dream. I barely take it in because I’m hyperaware of the man beside me. The heat of his arm. The quiet command of his stride. How every step he takes seems to affect gravity.

We haven’t said much since we left the bar. Just a look. One shared, loaded glance that said yes. No names. No expectations. Just want. No—need.

My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. We stop at the reception desk, and I swear I can feel the energy shift the moment the clerk sees him.

“Good even—oh. Hey,” the receptionist purrs. Her voice is warm, syrupy. A little too familiar. “How have you been, stranger?”

She’s all smiles until she sees me.

Then she glances back at him.

I try not to bristle.

“I’ve been just fine, Jess,” he replies, voice low and dry as aged bourbon. Then, like I’m the only thing in the room that matters, he turns to me. “You said you have a reservation.”