Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
“Get in your truck and go home, Sull—Bishop.”
“What if I’m not done with you yet?” He reaches for me, but I walk over to where my guitar case is and pick it up.
“Go home. You’ve had a long day.” I can see the weariness in his eyes, in the dark rings beneath them. “I’ll follow you in my truck to make sure you’re okay.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t need to do that. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.”
I shrug. “I’ll do it anyway. Drive around front.” I walk to the front of the building, frustrated puffs of air leaving my lungs with each step.
I’m pretty sure I hear him mumble something about damn bossy man, but I don’t reply, and as I take the corner, the sound of his truck door opening breaks through the night.
Sully drives slowly behind me, then waits while I place my guitar in my truck and climb in. The second I’m inside, the pressure in my chest expands. Goddamn it. Fucking around with Bishop Sullivan isn’t gonna do a damn bit of good. All it’s gonna do is mess up my head even more, and I’ll end up the one walking away with nothing, just like last time.
But I won’t stop. Don’t know how to stop. My fool brain is already thinking about the next time I get to taste him…touch him…
He pulls out of the lot, and I start my truck, following along behind him, the way Sully doesn’t realize I’ve done since the moment I’ve met him—wanting something that won’t ever really be mine.
Chapter 15
Bishop
I watch as the combine heads down the cornfields to harvest what we’d planted in the spring and early summer. We use the corn as a supplement to the grass and legumes for hay. I feel the pit growing in my stomach, hoping we yield enough to get us through the harsher winter months. It’s the same worry every year, but somehow, we always pull through. We’ve had more rain than drought, so the weather has been in our favor. That hasn’t always been the case, which means buying from local farms that have to jack their prices to make up for their own ruined crops.
Even the cows are getting restless because they have this innate way of sensing what’s coming. By the end of the week, we’ll be able to move them to graze in the harvested fields, since their normal pastures have already begun to grow sparse.
The fall harvest is in full swing on the ranch, which means I’ve barely had time to be around Porter, let alone talk to him much outside of telling him and the other hands where they’re needed most.
I smirk to myself. The fact that Porter thinks I have the upper hand is laughable. He’s always had it when it comes to me. I’d drop to my knees on his command if he wanted me to. Well, as long as we’re in private, which is nearly impossible these days.
Those thoughts are now left to my evenings, where I relive how his hands and mouth felt on me in the parking lot. That was reckless but so hot, I can’t help being grateful it happened. But it’s also a curse because now I want him all the time.
I long for him to call me boss in that secret way only I know about, and it’s almost become a game between us.
“Porter, can you help Otis count the hay bales again?”
“Of course, boss,” he says with that cocky grin. When our eyes meet and hold, it’s a contest to see who will look away first. It’s normally me because I’m hyperaware of my responsibilities and how much it would suck to let the others in on our secret. Well, other than Wade, who can totally read us but thankfully never betrays us.
When I hear a familiar sound, my head snaps toward the far field where Randy is riding our second, older combine.
I ride closer and motion to him. “Needs greasing!”
He gives me the thumbs-up as he steers the machine in my direction, but not too close so he won’t spook my horse. “On it.”
“Why didn’t you check it before riding out?” I ask, trying to temper my reaction. The combines need lubrication at least every twenty-four hours, especially during the harvest.
“My bad. I’ll head over now.” Before I can respond, he steps on the gas and eases the tractor toward the barn, where our machinery is stored.
He hasn’t shown up to work the past couple of days. According to him, Pixie was sick and stayed home from school, so he couldn’t leave her, but given his red nose and glazed eyes, he’s coming off a bender. I know better than to ask either of them. The ranch allots sick time, but if it keeps happening, I’m not gonna hold back.