Page 9 of Ready, Willing and Abel

“Shit,” I whisper. Maybe my Cactus Girl did take pictures of me.

Fuck.

“I just sent it.”

My phone vibrates in my hand. I pull it away from my ear to look.

“Oh fuck,” I say.

The image was clearly taken with a long-range lens, an expensive one too. It’s of me and Cactus Girl out in her field, and she’s on her knees in front of me. My head is tilted back, and it looks very much like she’s blowing me.

This picture is bad.

Yet, seeing it fills me with relief. This shot was taken by some professional muck-raker. Not by my Cactus Girl.

“It’s not what it looks like,” I say, all too aware that I should be panicking. But I’m not. Not even a little.

Not only does the picture mean that my Cactus Girl didn’t sell me out, but now I have to see her again.

“I’m boarding the plane now. I’ll be there in a few hours, sweet cheeks. I’ll take care of everything.”

Goddamn it!

chapter

five

Abel

“This is too fucking early to be showing up at someone’s house, Tish,” I hiss to my publicist.

“Nonsense,” Tish says brightly. “You said she lives on a farm. Farmers get up with the sun. Everyone knows that.”

“I’m not happy about this,” I mutter.

“Well, I’m not happy about those pictures all over the internet, Abel.” Tish shoots me a glare from across the limo.

“And I’ve explained the situation to you.”

“Yeah, I can’t sell that story to the public. No one will believe the whole man-eating plant thing.”

The limo turns down the gravel drive that leads to Cactus Girl’s house. I can’t deny that I’m excited about seeing her again. Maybe catching a glimpse at that heart-stuttering smile of hers. Though the odds of her ever smiling in my direction again after we ambush her like this are probably nil.

My stomach knots as the sleek black car comes to a stop. The first woman I’ve had any interest in, any kind of connection with, and we’re about to ruin her day. Possibly her entire life.

Okay, that’s probably overstating my importance. Still, I can’t imagine she’s going to be happy to see me.

“Here we go,” Tish says as the driver opens the door. He helps her out, and she wobbles slightly on her sky-high heels.

“Those shoes were not intended for the country,” I tell her.

She’s staring at the small white house. It’s old, you can see the paint is worn. But it is tidy. The porch, only big enough for two rocking chairs, is swept clear of leaves and any other debris. But those rocking chairs… they’re not the traditional white or wood-stain ones. Nope, they’re a mismatched pair. One is a lime green Adirondack with a flamingo- splattered pillow. The other is a vintage metal rocker just like the one my grandparents had on their porch when I was a kid. Except this one is painted bright pink. There’s a lime- shaped pillow on it.

My steps slow at the sight of these two drastically different chairs that somehow—against all odds—fit together perfectly.

I hadn’t even noticed them my first time on this porch. I was probably too busy staring at her ass. Now, they seem like a sign. They’re perfect in their mismatched imperfections.

Very much like I remember the inside of her house. Tidy, but visually chaotic at the same time. For some reason, it makes me smile.