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And then Damon came along.

He wasn't trying to tear down my walls. He wasn't even asking me to lower them.

He was simply standing on the other side, making me wonder why I'd built them so damn high in the first place.

22

EMOTIONAL TURTLE SHELL

Damon

By the time we got back home after the rehearsal dinner, I knew something was wrong. Not wrong, wrong. Nobody had died. The ranch wasn't on fire. My brothers hadn't done anything that required bail money.

At least, not that I knew of.

But Mikayla had gone quiet.

For most of the night, she'd been smiling. Laughing. Dancing with me like she didn't have a single care in the world. At one point, she'd even laughed so hard she snorted.

Which, for the record, might've been the sexiest sound I'd ever heard. I'd told her as much. She'd threatened to stab me with her dessert fork.

God, I loved that woman.

And there it was. That word. The one I'd spent most of my adult life avoiding like a tax audit.

But somewhere between the first time she'd rolled her eyes at me and tonight, when she'd rested her head against my chest during a slow dance, that four-letter word had gone from something I didn't believe in to the only thing that made any damn sense.

Unfortunately, the woman responsible for my sudden emotional growth spurt had retreated into her shell.

Her emotional turtle shell, as I'd come to think of it.

One minute, she'd been warm and open, looking at me like maybe, just maybe, I wasn't the worst decision she'd ever made.

The next, she'd gone quiet.

And now, instead of telling me what was bothering her, she'd disappeared into the bathroom with her overnight bag and a mumbled promise that she'd only be a few minutes. That was over thirty minutes ago.

I was beginning to suspect that whatever was happening between us scared the hell out of her. Which made two of us. The difference was, I was a Lockhart. When something scared us, we generally did something stupid.

Like ride a bull. Or jump off a roof into a swimming pool. Or fall in love with a woman who'd made it abundantly clear that she considered us a temporary arrangement. Going as far as drawing up a contract stating those exact terms.

When she’d retreated to the bathroom, I’d stripped down to my boxer-briefs, pulled on a pair of sweats, and climbed into bed.

The moment my head hit the pillow, I realized my mistake. My bed was no longer just a bed. It was a crime scene. A very sexy, very distracting crime scene.

Every time I closed my eyes, I remembered what had happened on that mattress. The way she'd looked at me. The way she'd kissed me. The way she'd whispered my name like it meant something.

And the worst part?

My brain had apparently decided those memories were now its default screensaver.

Perfect.

I stared at the ceiling and tried to think about anything else. Cattle prices. Fence repairs. My brother's questionable decision to buy a vintage tractor that hadn't run since the Reagan administration.

Nope.

All that I could think about was Mikayla. Specifically, Mikayla in my bed. Naked.