Training the Heart

Training the Heart

Chapter One

Wade

October

“Before my mind is ready, my body is. Chase grabs me by the back of my head, fisting my hair as his mouth devours mine.”

“Christ almighty, do you do anything else?” I grunt as I fumble to turn down the volume on the stereo that isn’t mine in the truck I don’t own.

“I want him on his knees. I want him to drown in my—­”

“You need help there, Chief?” Ivy giggles beside me as I finally grasp the right knob to turn down her audiobook so we can avoid listening to the narrator climax us all the way back to the ranch.

“I’ve got it,” I bite out. I push two silky hair ties down on the shifter so I can pop Ivy’s Silverado into reverse.

Not surprised I have to fight off these damn things to be able to do something as simple as drive. In the few short weeks Ivy has worked on my ranch, I’m pretty sure she’s left one in every crevice of the silos office imaginable. It was day one when she left one on my desk, then came looking for it later that I learned hair elastics have a specific term when they’re all soft and fluffy like this. “Scrunchie,” and Ivy hoards them. All different shades, all different patterns, as if she may suddenly need thirty-­two extra at a moment’s notice. She has a tower of them on her desk, every color of the rainbow and then some. Bright and happy-­looking twenty-­four seven—­just like her.

In fact, everything about this woman is feminine and sunshiny, including this truck of hers I’ve been roped into driving tonight. There’s a piña colada air freshener hanging from the rearview and a mishmash of lip balms and hand creams in the cup holders. It’s a goddamn beauty parlor on wheels.

Her crimson-­painted lips curl into a devilish grin with my open disdain of her book choice.

“Drive a girl’s truck and you have to live with the consequences.” Ivy laughs. “You know I like my books.” Her wide, almond-­shaped eyes dance with mischief as she pulls my blazer tight over her red evening dress. I lost it to her when she said she was cold and Cole’s sleazy cop buddy was about to offer his to her. I’m driving her home. It only makes sense she wears mine.

“Just another way for me to shake your nerves, boss . . . don’t you know I do it on purpose?” She giggles as I shake my head at her.

I don’t doubt she does. She’s been throwing me off and testing my “always in control, always have a plan” mantra since the first day I met her. But she was clearly my best choice as our lead temporary horse trainer. I’ll admit she impressed me during her interview and her mentor with the AQA wouldn’t shut up about her when I called him for a reference.

After working with her day in and day out over the last few weeks, I can see what he’s raving about. Ivy is brilliant with a knack for calming the horses and connecting with them like no one I’ve ever seen; she never loses her patience from our feistiest colts to our slow-­as-­molasses old steeds.

But f***, she gets under my skin. It’s not her fault, it’s mine because I’m having a hard time ignoring that not only is she gorgeous, but the more I get to know her, the more I realize she’s totally oblivious to her looks and her sassy, alluring charm. Which means she thinks nothing of it when every ranch hand I have bends over backward to get up early and deliver her coffee in the morning or when they offer to take on some of her morning chores for her. These pricks have never shown up early for work a day in their lives, and all of a sudden, they’re in the barn before the roosters rise and happy as f*** about it?

Ivy is thrilled they’re all “so nice” as she’s told me on many occasions which leads me to believe for how experienced she presents herself to be, she is a bit naïve about the opposite sex.

This has me both keeping an eye out for her constantly and sobering myself up from getting caught staring at her too. I’m holding it together, but it’s only been a few weeks and I’m pretty sure the balance of it has aged me ten years already.

I salute my younger brother Cole goodbye out my window as I pull out of our town pub’s parking lot. He’s standing in the doorway of the Horse and Barrel watching me go, grinning like a fool at me driving Ivy’s truck off the lot.

I’m only her chauffeur because my sister CeCe and her girl crew adopted Ivy as one of their own tonight. Inviting her to celebrate CeCe’s new engagement “Not-­Angels” style. Which basically means, drink way too much, and dance all night long on the Horse and Barrel dance floor. So here I am, leaving anyone behind us with a bumper sticker that says cowgirls just wanna have fun.

I look over at her smug grin, and I gather she thinks her book smut has embarrassed me.

“I’m sorry I made you blush at my romance novel,” she hums as she pulls her hair down, not sounding sorry in the slightest. I watch in my periphery as it tumbles in waves around her shoulders.

“It takes more than a little smut to make me blush,” I retort.

Ivy makes a wounded face at my words.

“It’s a steamy romance book, not smut, and it was just getting to the good part when I got to the bar. I was looking forward to it for on the way home. I didn’t expect you’d be driving me.” She snickers, still not a hint of embarrassment in her tone.

It’s not lost on me that not only does she read it any chance she gets, she also just drives around town listening to full-­out porn on any given day and owns it. I’m all about a woman being confident in her own skin and enjoying sex and everything it has to offer, but because I’m my own worst enemy, I scoff at the term she used—­romance—­loud enough for her to swat at me.

She laughs, the cocky laugh of too many “Nash and CeCe are engaged so let’s party” shots. “Well, we can’t all be grumpy prudes, excuse me for enjoying a good love story.”

I’m just going to keep my mouth shut here. I’m the furthest thing from a prude she’ll ever meet. In fact, I’m a firm believer that there should be no limits when it comes to sex. To hold back would be a waste in the one area of life you can let go, an escape.

So . . . grumpy? Sure. Prude? Not a f***ing chance.

“Oh, no you don’t, don’t even think you’re staying quiet. Inquiring minds want to know, what’s making you huff out all those judgy noises at me? Have you got something to say about my choice in literature?” Ivy challenges, then adds, “Cat got your tongue?”

I scrub my face with my free hand. I’m still not completely used to this smug little firecracker and the way she can manage to get under my skin.

“Come on now, spill it,” she says, cocking one eyebrow at me. I turn to her for a split second while I drive.

“The plot of this book has f***ing nothing to do with love or romance,” I deadpan, pointing to the dash.

“Yes, it does,” Ivy argues defensively, feigning shock before she adds, “I mean, they both seem to love her in their own way.”

They? Jesus f***ing Christ.

“All right, I’ll bite. Let’s start with this. What’s it called?” I ask as we pass the Laurel Creek town sign and start cruising through the dark countryside.

“What’s it called?” she repeats my question, taking her plush bottom lip between her teeth.

“That’s right. This steamy romance you’re hell-­bent on defending, what’s the title?” I look over at her, counting the seconds she sits in silence. “What’s the matter?” I ask. “Smutty book name got your tongue?”

Ivy grimaces. “No . . . it’s just, that’s not a fair question because the title doesn’t sound romantic.”

Now I’m invested.

She looks down to check her nails, in the dark no less as if they need her attention desperately.

“What’s the name, Trouble?” I repeat.

Ivy sighs and stares out the window. “Filthy Lords of Sin,” she whispers, barely audible.

I nod. “My mistake. Sounds mighty romantic.”

Ivy huffs out a breath but doesn’t say one more word on the subject and keeps her eyes out the window.

I rest my f***ing case.