That killer protective instinct was why Max had been there the day Grant had ended up walking right into a trap. Grant had wandered from camp, needing to be alone after realizing it was the one-year anniversary of something he couldn’t bear to remember but couldn’t ever forget. He’d been numb and honestly not caring if he lived or died—but Max had followed. Had watched Grant’s back and, ultimately, had jumped in front of him when Grant had found himself on the bad end of an enemy soldier’s gun.
Max had risked his life without hesitation to protect him. So Grant could only imagine how protective and not-cool-with-it Max would be if Grant had made a move on his baby sister.
No, Grant had to do the right thing. Even if that meant he’d gone to bed with a headache and a case of blue balls. He just needed to get Charli back to her own place and out of his line of sight. Then he needed to get over his picky tendencies and take up one of the submissives at The Ranch on her offer and indulge his starved libido.
He’d let himself go too long and had gotten to the point where he wasn’t thinking straight—where he’d actually considered asking a girl on a date.
He didn’t do dating. Or relationships. Or vanilla. What exactly had he thought he would do with a girl like Charli? Take her out for a movie and then what? The minute she found out how dark his cowboy hat could get, she’d hightail it like a jackrabbit running from a bobcat.
A muffled cry filtered through the quiet of the cabin, breaking Grant from his thoughts. In an instant, he was on his feet and heading to Charli’s closed bedroom door. He’d checked her an hour or so before and she’d been in a sound sleep, but another whimper of distress had him rapping sharply on the door. “Charli, you okay?”
When she didn’t answer, he turned the knob and pushed the door open. Charli was on her side, sheets tangled around her and one long leg exposed from ankle to hip. Resisting the urge to stare, he dragged his attention upward and crouched next to the side of the bed. Sweat soaked her hair, plastering strands to her forehead and the swollen knot.
He laid a hand on her shoulder to give her a gentle shake. “Charli, wake up, darlin’.”
She moaned again, and her face twisted into a scowl. “No, stop, go around…”
But he could tell she wasn’t talking to him. Some nightmare had taken hold. He jostled her a bit harder, calling her name. At that, she screamed and launched herself upward, knocking her head into his before he had the chance to back off.
Her eyes snapped open, wide with panic as she scanned the room.
“Shh, Charli. You’re okay,” he said, rubbing his own forehead. “You were having a bad dream.”
She glanced over at him, blinked. The wildness in her eyes seemed to dissipate as she stared at him. “Grant?”
“The very one.”
“Ow.” She put her hand to her head, and he tried not to notice that she’d sweated right through the white T-shirt he’d let her borrow. The dark shadows of her nipples peeked through, sending a rush of his blood decidedly south. He forced his gaze upward. He couldn’t get a hard-on right now. He was already enough of an asshole for thinking about her that way when she’d clearly woken up from a nightmare.
He cleared his throat. “You all right?”
“Yes. No.” She shook her head slightly, like she was still trying to clear the cobwebs. “I think my memory is coming back.”
“About the accident?”
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, either unconcerned or unaware that she was only in a T-shirt and what looked to be grandma-sized panties. “I need to go home.”
“Whoa,” he said, stepping closer. “What’s wrong? What do you remember?”
“I don’t want to rehash it. I just—” She glanced down at her state of undress and even in the predawn light he could see her cheeks darken. “Shit. Where are my pants?”
“I washed everything and hung your stuff up in the bathroom.”
She hurried past him, a bit unsteady on her feet, and went into the bathroom. The sink turned on and off. When she stepped out again, she had her jeans and her own shirt back on and had twisted her long locks into some kind of makeshift bun. “Since we’re both up anyway, do you mind taking me now?”
“I don’t mind, but I’d sure like to know why you’re moving so fast all of a sudden. Tell me what’s going on.”
“It’s not important,” she said, grabbing her purse.
“The hell it isn’t.” He crossed his arms over his chest, squaring off with her. Her agitation wasn’t simply a need to get home. She’d remembered something bad. He could almost taste her fear, like the air had been flavored with it. “Take a breath. I’ll take you home. But tell me what’s got you scared.”
Those green eyes, the ones that had been so soft and inviting the day before, turned guarded. But if she thought the tough-girl face was hiding the anxiety he could feel vibrating off her, she was sadly mistaken. He’d spent too many years reading cues in people. She’d have to do better than that to fool him.
She took a deep breath. “Look, I appreciate the help you’ve given me. I do. But I just need to get home.”
“If you’re in some kind of trouble, Max would want—”
She raised a hand to him, halting his words. “If it were up to Max, I would still be living around the corner so he could make sure the wind didn’t blow on me wrong. And everything is fine.”
Sure it was. She hadn’t even been able to keep the eye contact when telling the lie.
He had to stop himself from calling her on it or demanding honesty. She’d only put up more defenses, and that would get them nowhere.
Looked like the girl who he’d lain awake fantasizing about all night didn’t respond well to his bossy side. Par for the course. “Fine. Wait out front, and I’ll drive my truck around.”
She gave him a curt, satisfied nod, thinking she had won. “Thank you.”
He bit his tongue and headed out the door.
She wouldn’t be thanking him later when she found out what he was about to do on the walk back to his cabin. In his personal life, he considered a woman’s consent as sacred as religion. But when it came to someone’s safety, he wasn’t going to waste time asking for permission.
He was taking charge of this rodeo.
The ride back to Dallas was a quiet one. Grant made attempts at polite conversation with Charli, but she couldn’t concentrate. All she could think about was the fact that she’d been purposely run off the road by someone—that she could’ve been killed.
She planned to call the cops when she got home and was out of Mr. Sexy Cowboy’s earshot. But she knew that whatever small-town police force covered that stretch of country road probably couldn’t do much without any witnesses or license plate numbers. She couldn’t even give them the make or model of the car. The lights had been so bright. All she could figure was that it had been a truck or SUV of some sort. Something that was taller than her vehicle.
And most likely it had been a drunk driver or kids letting