Page 22 of Right Number, Wrong Man

HAILEY

I blow out a heavy breath, fanning myself with my hand. The sun has set, but the sweltering summer heat is still trapped in the metal shack behind Sara Jean’s vegetable patch. Though it feels suspiciously like the fire blazing across my face comes from inside me.

Oh no, no, no.

I’m not blushing.

It must be the bourbon I had in my sweet tea. Those hot flashes definitely aren’t caused by Colt pretending to pose for the cover of GQ while he’s carrying boxes through the shed.

His dark blond hair falls in messy strands into his eyes. Sexy messy. His jawline looks sharp enough to cut glass, courtesy of an exposed light bulb throwing harsh shadows. And speaking of exposed, his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows.

Everybody knows that’s the sluttiest thing a man can do.

As he stacks boxes of old Christmas decorations, the muscles in his forearms strain underneath his lightly tanned skin. When he turns his back, my fingers itch to trace those broad shoulders pulling his button-down shirt taut.

He is arresting. Only an idiot wouldn’t see that.

Apparently, I was one of those idiots because until Andrea mentioned it, I never noticed that Colt could be a supermodel.

But tonight, he doesn’t just look good. He looks different .

It could be because I’ve never seen him smile as much as he did in the car or because he’s never been this nice to me.

Damn the alcohol for making my thoughts all crazy.

I shouldn’t have gone to the shed with Colt, but I have Sara Jean to blame for that. She practically shoved me out the garden door after him. She must think that we could use a team building exercise, but my part of the effort consists of ogling Colt with entirely new eyes.

Eyes that realize what a gorgeous ass he has under those beautifully worn-in Wranglers.

Fine, he is handsome, but in the same way you’d admire a sculpture in a museum. Look, don’t touch. Keep your distance. His pretty face and chiseled body hide a rotten personality wrapped in layer after layer of red flags.

He’s like an onion of red flags. Peeling back the layers would only end in tears and curses.

Colt said it himself: tonight’s truce is temporary. All that niceness won’t fool me, and I already have a handsome man in my life:

Jax.

Colt can’t hold a candle to him.

Even though I’ve only seen the lower half of Jax, his kinky side gives him an edge, and I have a sneaking suspicion he’s hot anyway. He can cloak himself in shadows, but there’s always his pierced, big cock. And he can’t hide those large, veiny hands, his strong forearms or those drool-worthy abs.

Need pulses between my legs as I remember my butt plug adventure and the text I got from Jax this morning. I read it so many times, I know it by heart.

Hope you got some good sleep, Sugar. I won’t be around much today, but I got a surprise for you next week. It’ll make the bus station look like a warmup.

Whatever could Jax have planned for me? Surely he won’t really come to visit. But if he thinks the butt plug excursion was a warmup…

A wave of wanting rises through me as my mind drifts to my favorite fantasy. Jax is the one person who knows about it, and that makes it even hotter. More intimate. It’s our secret now.

I imagine myself home alone when a hand covers my mouth and?—

“Thanks for bein’ here tonight,” Colt says, interrupting my naughty daydream.

“I was thinking about bread!” I blurt out, blushing.

His head jerks. “That’s weird.”

Oh God. He knows . He knows I was thinking about sex ?—

“Cause you’re more of a pastry gal with that sweet tooth o’ yours,” he adds.

My shoulders drop with relief. “Oh, yes. True.” I’m surprised he’d remember that about me or care at all.

“I’ll ask Momma to pack some pie for you to take home.”

“T-thanks.”

He nods. “Anyway, thanks for keepin’ the peace during dinner.”

“It was fun! I really missed Sara Jean and Earl, but I should be the one thanking you. If you hadn’t forced me to come, I don’t know if I would’ve found the courage. I never took myself for a coward, but when I stopped returning your mom’s calls, I was. It was an awful, selfish thing to do.”

“My folks understand. So do I.”

I bite my lip. “You know, you were right when you called me a bitch a few days ago at work. Because what I did to your parents was prime bitch behavior.”

Colt pauses, holding a box with old sporting supplies, glaring daggers at me over a weathered baseball glove. A chill drifts up my spine.

Uh-oh, what did I do wrong now ?

“Hold up. I never called you a bitch and I never would,” he says and there’s that strange, new warmth in his tone again. It doesn’t match the scowl he’s wearing, but for some reason I don’t doubt his words. “Unless you wanted me to,” he adds.

I grin, putting my hands on my hips. “Colton Walker, was that a joke ?”

“I’m known to crack one or two… per year.” He smirks and his eyes twinkle. “I think you misheard cause I did call you a different b-word. I called you a brat and I ain’t takin’ it back. You deserve the title.” His head cocks. “Besides, I never implied that being a brat is a bad thing.”

My jaw drops. It’s like I’m standing in a furnace and I’m at risk of melting and disappearing in the cracks between the floorboards. I stutter, sounding like I had a serious head injury for dinner.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Colt is flirting with me.

Does he even do that? Flirt, I mean?

I’ve seen the hottest women—I’m talking model types—approach him at work and he’s never as much as smirked. It’s always strictly business. Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am . He’s polite, but beyond that he’s distanced and withdrawn.

I always assumed he’s married to the military and has no interest in romance. And he sure as fuck isn’t into me.

So what’s going on?

Colt laughs. It’s a dark, low snicker, and the sound sucks the air from the room. He puts the box down and his chin drops, one hand clasped on the back of his neck. When he takes a step forward, I take one back.

Another.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’re gonna stop givin’ me those eyes, Spitfire,” he rumbles.

A twist of heat blooms in my center.

“What’s wrong with my eyes?” I choke out breathlessly.

I bump backward into the door and my heart flutters like a bird as he braces his hands on the wall by my head, caging me in.

I must be more wasted than I thought because this feels like a hallucination. Should I slap myself or?—

Colt’s face falls like he’s seen a ghost. He straightens, then his brows scrunch and his teeth grind, a muscle at his jaw twitching.

Oh, no. He looks murderous . He always kind of does, but this is worse than usual. His cold, blue eyes practically scream “ I already know where I’ll bury your body. ”

Shit, that’s it!

Colt is going to kill me.

All these years, he’s been stewing in his hatred for me, waiting patiently, plotting my demise. And now he’s going to do it. Winning my trust was probably part of his plan to humiliate me before he shoots me with his nameless pistol. I bet he’ll laugh while he watches me bleed out.

“Don’t. Move,” Colt growls .

Joke’s on him, because I couldn’t move if I wanted to. Fear paralyzes me.

In movies, I hate the heroines who freeze when the killer comes at them, but I’m a hypocrite. It turns out I’m no better. Everybody in the theater would be booing me if they saw this scene playing on the big screen.

Colt reaches out in slow-motion and my brain shouts to run, but my legs still won’t budge.

If I call for help, would Sara Jean and Earl hear me this far into their massive garden?

Wait, I’m stupid. I bet his parents are in on this and that’s why they invited me back! They blame me for Mike’s death after all and now they’ll make me pay.

Murder as a wholesome, healing family activity, yay!

My lips wobble as I imagine my bloody fate. The Walkers will chop my body up and bury me in the garden. I’ll be fertilizer for the veggies they gift to their neighbors and nobody will ever know what happened to me.

Or maybe they’ll do it Texas Chainsaw Massacre style. A slow-cooked Hailey roast, prepared with fresh herbs and gravy. Or how about some Hailey jerky, smoked to perfection. A Hailey bone broth, hearty and?—

Colt’s hand wraps around my wrist and I let out a bloodcurdling scream. He’s so strong, I don’t stand a chance when he yanks me toward him. Helplessly, I collide with his broad chest.

“Let me go!” I shout, battering him with my free fist, but it does absolutely nothing.

I’m like an ant fighting a giant.

Colt curses under his breath. He grabs my flailing arm and gently brings it behind my back. I expect it to hurt, but it doesn’t.

“Hold still, woman! What’s come over you?” he hisses .

I sob, bending my neck all the way to stare up into his blue eyes. “I don’t want to get eaten by cannibals!”

“ Cannibals ?” He sounds genuinely confused, but that must be a trick.

Does he think I’m too stupid to see through his plan?

“You want to murder me and turn me into BBQ meat!” I shout.

His mouth twitches like he holds back a smirk. “Wow, that’s a low blow. Just cause I’m from Texas, Leatherface must be my cousin, huh? Want me to get out the ol’ chainsaw and chase you through the dark garden?”

My pussy trembles like a traitor. I wish I could detach the thing around Colt.

Chuckling, he leans in and his nose brushes mine. His breath tickles my lips and I smell bourbon and his Sunday cigar—another tradition he shares with Earl—on it.

“I’m not in the habit of killing brats. I only punish them,” he whispers.

What the hell did he say ?

My brain is on fire, my thoughts consumed by heat and panic and alcohol. God, he smells nice. The bourbon and the smoke, mixing with the fresh sweat he worked up moving the boxes…

Realization hits like a sledgehammer, making me wheeze.

Okay, good news: Colt doesn’t want to murder me and turn my meat into stew. Crisis averted.

Bad news: I’m in his arms, pressed against his chest. We’re hip to hip. His heat sinks into me through the barrier of our clothes, and I’m burning up.

Help. Me.

Something thick and long and hard pushes against my stomach. Is that his cock ? If it is, it’s big.

Wait, why is he hard ?

A pulse throbs between my legs, my panties growing damp. The last thing I need is to lust after my deceased husband’s brother. But I’m not.

I’m absolutely not lusting after Colt.

This is a regular, physiological reaction to an adrenaline-fueled situation, and it must be the same for him. Otherwise, it would mean Colt is hard for me . That’s about as likely as hell freezing over.

He’s got an adrenaline-boner, and I have an I-thought-I-was-about-to-get-murdered-wet-pussy. Very normal.

He straightens and tugs me forward while he backs into a corner, his movement startling me into action.

“Well, if you’re not going to murder me, what the fuck are you doing?” I ask.

“Protecting you, Spitfire.”

I scoff. “From what?”

He spins me around so fast I get dizzy—and then even dizzi er from the feeling of his cock against my ass. With two fingers, he tips my chin up and directs my gaze toward the door where I stood before.

“I’m protecting you from that ,” Colt says, and my blood curdles.