Page 7 of Tempting Wyatt (Triple Creek Ranch #1)

CHAPTER SIX

wyatt

ONLY MY MOTHER WOULD NAME the guest cabin and rent it out without discussing it with me first.

Lazy Bear, this Ivy lady called it. The nickname my mother used to call my dad in jest because he was bear-sized, but he was the furthest thing from lazy.

Whatever this Ivy woman has paid, I intend to issue her a full refund and send her on her way as soon as possible.

This decision is fully reinforced when she joins me on the ATV.

Once I strap her bags onto the back, there’s very little room for her to squeeze in behind me.

Despite the fact that I know I intimidated the hell out of her upon her arrival, she wraps her arms around me when I tell her to hold on.

Maybe I imagine it, but just before I crank the engine, I think I hear her gasp as her fingertips dig into my chest.

Under no conditions do I want to take her tight little body in my arms when she’s pressed against me on the four-wheeler. Nor do I watch her delectable ass every step of the way as she practically skips up the cabin steps while I carry her two fancy bags.

I need to get laid. That’s all it is.

It’s been six months—the longest I’ve ever gone without sex since I started having sex—and I’ve been working myself to death.

The pent-up frustration I’ve been ignoring is front and center every time I lay eyes on this woman.

This weekend, I’ll stop in The Stillery, the local bar owned by a buddy of my dad’s, and hook up with a tourist. Maybe I’ll head to The Wild Coyote, the one with the mechanical bull that draws all the bachelorette parties and hook up with two tourists.

Then maybe my entire body won’t vibrate with nearly uncontrollable need every time this woman brushes past me.

She claims to be from Los Angeles, and there are California plates on her car.

Of all places. She’s probably going to try and teach the ranch hands yoga while eating tofu.

I’m fairly certain she isn’t going to make it two weeks out here.

Hopefully, she’ll bail out in a few days. One less headache to deal with.

“This is so adorable and perfect,” the interloper gushes, admiring the warm glow of the porch light and the hanging baskets of forget-me-nots and ferns my mother must’ve put up recently.

“Don’t get too excited, Hollywood,” I warn her as I open the door. “Not a lot of frills out here. Wi-Fi isn’t reliable.”

She tosses me an odd look as she steps inside. “Yes, because I rented a cabin in the middle of nowhere, hoping it would have high-speed internet.”

I almost chuckle at her comment but resist the urge.

Sassy little thing, this one.

“Okay then. I’ll give you the two-cent tour.

I’m sure my mom will be down shortly to give you a better one.

” I place her bags beside the front door and point as we walk through the cabin.

“Living room. Kitchen. Bathroom is behind that door. And down that hall are two bedrooms. A master with its own bathroom and a smaller one there in the hallway. There’s a hot tub on the back deck, but I haven’t checked it in a while, and I didn’t know anyone was coming, so I can’t be certain if the water is clean and the jets are functioning.

Don’t wander into the woods after dark and don’t leave any food outside. ”

When she says nothing, I meet her confused stare.

“Laurel—I mean, Mrs. Logan—is your mom?”

“That’s what you took away from everything I just said?”

She lifts her eyebrows, assessing me with her gaze. Like I’m not worthy of being my mother’s son. She’s probably not wrong.

This would be so much easier if she wasn’t so damn attractive.

It’s not in my nature to tell beautiful women to get the hell off my property. Even if I want them to.

“Yeah, she’s my mom.”

And I’ve been acting like I was raised by wolves since you arrived.

Taking in a deep breath because I’ve been a dick to this stranger who doesn’t deserve it, I reach out my hand and formally introduce myself, like I should’ve to begin with. “I’m Wyatt Logan. Technically, this is my ranch. My family’s ranch really.”

She regards me warily for a moment, and I don’t blame her. When she slips her hand into mine, a flood of adrenaline hits my system.

“Ivy Anderson,” she says softly. “But I think I told you my name already.”

I nod, forcing myself to release her hand. I could pull her to me so easily, could devour her sweet, tight body up against this wall until sunup. She smells like honey and sunshine. The need to taste her has been plaguing me since we climbed on that damn four-wheeler.

As if she can read my mind, her lips part, and a breath of air escapes.

“You don’t have to say it’s nice to meet me. I know it hasn’t been,” I offer when the silence gets thick enough to strangle us both.

She offers me a soft smile. “It hasn’t been all bad. The view is amazing.”

I arch an eyebrow, and she blushes a pretty shade of pink.

“I meant, the view of the mountains. The, um, nature. You have a beautiful home.”

You have a beautiful everything.

“Thank you.”

“Are you a cowboy here on the ranch?”

My jaw clenches. “Not exactly.”

She makes a faint sound of surprise. “Oh, sorry. I don’t know how any of this works. But I guess if you own it, you don’t have to work on it.”

She literally couldn’t be more wrong.

“So, no ropin’ and wranglin’ for you then?”

Her version of an accent is surprisingly sexy. Not that any of us actually speak that way. Last I checked, we’re all familiar with the G’s on the ends of words.

“I rope and wrangle if I’m needed. But we have wranglers and ranch hands for that.”

She bites her lower lip as if she’s nervous suddenly, and it’s adorable.

And now I need to kick my own ass because I do not think of women as adorable. Babies are adorable. Puppies are adorable.

Women fit into two categories.

Fuckable and not fuckable.

Nothing complicated. It’s a simple system really. If they’re looking for a husband, not fuckable. If they’re relatively uncrazy and looking for a good time, fuckable.

I’m into honest, submissive, not looking for anything long-term, and no drama. Anything outside of that is definitely not my type.

Ivy Anderson has drama written all over her. What kind of woman drives a thousand or more miles alone to rent a random cabin in the middle of nowhere for two weeks? One running from drama—that’s who. Probably drama she created.

She’s tiny and soft-spoken, but she has this air about her, like there’s not a submissive bone in her perfect body. Her intentionally damaged jeans look like they cost more than my monthly paycheck. I don’t even want to know about the shiny black handbag or the spiky-heeled ankle boots.

This high-maintenance piece of work isn’t my type.

So, as much as I appreciate her physical appearance, that’s all I’ll be doing. Appreciating it from afar.

“So, what do you do then?”

Not make pointless conversation with random women who show up on my ranch unexpectedly, for starters.

I don’t have time for this—whatever this is. My to-do list for today still has half a dozen items on it, and the sun has almost completely set.

I move toward the front door. “I do whatever needs to be done.”

“Sounds like a lot for one man to handle.”

You have no idea, sweetheart.

“I work on the ranch plenty. But I’m a rancher, not a cowboy,” I tell her. “Like a ranch manager, overseeing everything from the actual work on the daily punch list to the financials.”

“Kind of the behind-the-scenes guy,” she says, looking genuinely interested. “You’re pretty much the boss, then?”

I almost laugh. “It’s not that fancy. No corner offices.

Only bosses around here are cattle bosses.

” She opens her mouth to ask more questions, I’m guessing, so I elaborate.

“A cattle boss is a foreman, Hollywood. Not to be confused with a cow boss, which is just a dominant cow.” She smiles at me and I find myself telling her much more than I mean to.

“The cowboys handle the cattle, and the wranglers tend to the horses. I oversee all of them and the equipment the best I can. Make sure we have a budget and a plan to keep everything running as smoothly as possible, keep everything paid, organized, and the animals fed, rotated, and healthy. We’ve downsized a bit recently, so we all help out wherever we’re needed. ”

I have no clue why I’m still here, explaining my job to this woman, instead of moving my ass so I can get back out there and actually do it.

Soft hazel eyes meeting mine. “I kind of love that. I mean, not that you had to downsize, but the everyone-helping-out part. Like one big family.”

“Yeah. Pretty much.” I need to get the hell out of here because this cabin seems to be shrinking the longer I’m in it. Her damn eyes are hypnotizing me. I place my hand on the doorknob to make my escape. “Well, if you don’t need anything else from me, I’ll let you get settled in.”

Either I’m imagining it, or her gaze turns hungry at the mention of her needing anything else from me.

Looks like I’m not the only one who needs to get laid.

This is not good. This is the opposite of good.

I’ve been here before.

And that look—the one in her eyes that says she needs much more from me than a two-cent tour of this cabin—is dangerous.