At Whit's End (Wells Ranch, #4)(38)

And Colt, the asshole, nods before hurriedly adding, “The good witch, though. That pink-dress-wearing one who rides around in a bubble.”

“Hate to burst your bubble, but my name isn’t Witch.”

“The evil look you’re currently giving me isn’t doing anything to help your case.” Colt leans forward into my personal space, resting his elbows on the counter and smiling innocently at me.

I haven’t noticed how blue his irises are before now. They’re dark and expansive, holding the depth of an entire ocean. I could slide my hand around the back of his neck and pull him even closer. Search his eyes until our lips inevitably touch. It would be delicate at first. Maybe we’d both question if it even happened. Then we’d kiss again, deeper. Unmistakable. He’d reach across and pull my entire body onto the counter, bringing me into his chiseled arms.

Colt jumps, breaking my trance, when Jonas jabs a finger into his side. “Eat faster so we can get back to the race.”

“Sheesh. Yes, boss.” Maintaining wide, unwavering eye contact with Jonas, Colt chews impossibly fast. The muscles along his sharp jawline tick with each exaggerated chomp. With a swallow, he turns to me and hooks a thumb toward my son. “Is it your fault he’s so damn pushy all the time?”

“Mom’s super bossy,” Jonas offers up, reaching for his pop.

Colt’s searing gaze moves over my skin. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

Before I can form a response that won’t come off flirtatious, Jonas has Colt by the arm, dragging him back to the couch. And I can breathe normally again.

All I need is for Jonas to keep interfering until my body and brain get back on the same page. The whole-body ache and the nervous fluttering need to stop so I can go back to feeling nothing when I look at him. For so many reasons, Colt is firmly off-limits.





Colt


It’s nearly nine o’clock, and we’re settling back into our first race post–snack break. Whit brought out creamsicles—as if the mountain of candy wasn’t enough sugar—and I nearly combusted when she took the entire orange treat into her mouth and sucked, cheeks hollowed out before releasing with a loud pop.

I could sit and watch Whit’s tongue work its way around an ice cream treat for hours on end, but I’d prefer to do that without her kid present.

Then he unknowingly took his job as cockblocker very seriously. A fart-burp combo killed the mood on impact, sending everyone fleeing back to the couch. Even Betty hightailed it out of the kitchen, taking up residence under the coffee table once again. And Whit tossed her popsicle in the trash en route to the living room, claiming he ruined her dessert.

He was entirely unapologetic.

“Winner races your mom,” I taunt Jonas, once the dust, er…gas, has settled and we’re all comfortably back in our respective spots on the couch.

Whit’s curled up under a fuzzy white blanket, toying with a sour key in her mouth, and she gives me a look that says she has no desire to play along.

“Mom’s an even worser driver than you,” Jonas says at the same moment his car crashes into a wall.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Whit sets her sour key down, brushing the loose sugar from her fingers on her denim shorts. “I’m a great driver. And I spent a lot of time playing Mario Kart with your dad as a teenager. Kicked his butt every single time.”

“I’m dying to see this.” Letting my car roll to a stop in the middle of the race, I hold my controller out to her.

With a devilish grin, Whit snatches it and jumps into the race like an old pro. Weaving through NPC cars and clawing her way from sixth to second in a matter of seconds. Slack-jawed, Jonas crashes into a wall again.

“Holy shit. Are you practicing all night while Jonas is asleep or something?”

She sits back with a winning exhale, simply cruising through the street race like she’s on a casual Sunday drive. “Told you I was good.”

“Like…underground gamer good,” Jonas says. It’s hard to tell if he’s mad or impressed. “Who are you and what have you done with my mom?”

After her car’s crossed the finish line, she sets the controller down and stretches her arms out in front of her. Then cracks her knuckles and rolls her neck while we wait for Jonas to finish dead last.

“Time for your victory dance, Mama,” I say.

“No, no.” She waves her hands in front of her face. “I don’t dance.”

“No way. You got to sit there and laugh at our silly dance moves.” I gesture toward the open living room floor. Her big eyes meet mine with a flicker of heat.

“I don’t need to rub it in that I won.” She grabs a sour key and pops it onto her blue-stained tongue.

“I mean, technically I did the first three-quarters of that race. It was a joint effort, so I’ll dance with you.” I shake out the weariness in my legs when I stand up and reach for her hand. Teasing, I add, “Come on, Whittaker.”

To my surprise, she takes it. Warm, smooth palm sliding into my work-worn one.

Rolling her eyes, she says, “It turns out I actually like the name Whitney a lot more now. I’ll have my parents send their gratitude your way.”

I pull her to her feet and bust out a robot move to get the party started. The only music we have is from the video game lobby, which is some type of obscure hard rock that’s not exactly meant for dancing. Good thing the classic robot arm moves don’t need to be on beat.