West of Forever (Heartstone Ranch #1)(29)

“Jerk,” I mutter and rest my head against the cool glass window.

He gets in, looks over at me, and sighs. “If you’re going to puke, tell me first so you don’t ruin my truck.”

I mimic his mouth, repeating it but not aloud.

He sees it and glares.

“Fine, I’ll tell you before I hurl.”

“Appreciate that.”

Once again I find myself in his truck that smells like dirt, horse, cologne, and leather. All things masculine and all things inherently Tristan.

He pulls out, and my stomach roils. I close my eyes, hoping that the twenty-minute ride to the ranch will pass quickly, and without incident, if I’m not paying attention.

My stomach, however, isn’t a fan of this.

I lift my lids and groan, hand moving to my stomach.

Please, if you are up there, God, do not let me puke in front of this man. Just give me until I get home, and I will pray to the porcelain gods all night if you grant me this.

God is not answering my pleas.

“Tristan,” I say, my hand going to my mouth. “Pull over.”

Oh, this is going to suck so bad.

I will never be able to look at this man again.

Ever.

Hey, that’ll solve this stupid infatuation issue.

Tristan pulls over on the side of the road. I open the door, sticking the top half of my body out. I feel so nauseated.

I inhale deeply, waiting for the sickness to come, but it doesn’t, and instead Tristan is here, beside me, pushing my hair back. “Are you okay?”

What universe am I living in?

Did he seriously get out of the truck and come around to help me? No. This is a dream. I’m clearly so damn drunk I don’t even have a grip on reality.

It’s the only reasonable explanation for any of this.

Drunk or dreaming.

I will say, if I am dreaming, this is really unfair. Who the hell wants to dream about puking—almost puking—on the side of the road?

Not me.

I’d much prefer a sexy dream with orgasms.

“Good to know,” Tristan chuckles.

I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand. “I did not say that.”

“Sexy dreams and orgasms. You definitely said it.”

I can feel the heat of embarrassment climbing up my face. “Wake up, wake up, wake up,” I say to myself.

“This is awake,” he informs me.

Of course it is.

“I’m never drinking tequila again,” I moan, heaving myself into my seat, my head falling back against the headrest.

“Has the nausea passed?”

I nod, creaking my eye open just a touch and seeing his gorgeous face there. “For now.”

“You think I’m gorgeous?”

“No!” I deny quickly.

He smirks. “I’m pretty sure that’s what you said.”

I hate myself right now. “I didn’t.”

“Ya did.”

I roll my eyes. “You promised not to talk.”

“Ahh, but you talked to me first.”

“That doesn’t mean I want a conversation.” I bristle, crossing my arms over my belly.

Tristan laughs. “Fair enough. No more talking. Although feel free to tell me more about your dreams.”

The asshat closes my door and walks around the front.

I close my eyes again, hoping I can keep my stomach from revolting during the rest of the drive. Even better, I can’t talk if I’m asleep.

Time to fake it.

As soon as Tristan hops in beside me, I know I’m doomed. He leans in, adjusting my seat belt back around me. My eyes open immediately, and I push his hands away. “I’m perfectly capable of doing this myself.”

One dark brown brow lifts. “Are you?”

I glare at him. “Yes. Now, go back to your side. I’m going to nap.”

His breathy laugh echoes in the silence. “Suit yourself.”

The truck rumbles to life, and I pretend my eyelids are glued.

Well, partially.

I lift my right one, staring at him in the dim light from the dash.

His head turns, and I slam it closed, hoping he didn’t catch me.

Hope is futile at this point. I should stop doing it since it’s not working out all that well for me.

“How’s the nap going?”

I sigh. “Great.”

“How is your stomach?”

“As long as I keep my eyes closed, it seems better.”

Apparently, if I can’t see the road, I’m able to control it. Tomorrow is going to suck, though.

After trying to fake sleep and my stomach starting to churn again, I turn to Tristan. “Why is your ranch named Heartstone?” I ask the stupidest question ever asked.

He glances over. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.”

“But you just asked.”

I hate him.

I decide to back down and not let my curiosity get the best of me. “Forget it. I don’t care.”

Tristan snorts a laugh. “It’s because of my mother.”

That makes zero sense. “Huh? Your mother?”

Tristan’s family farm has been passed down for at least four generations. How do I know this? Because our family has been doing the same. It’s always the first son who gets it. Blah blah. Boys and the patriarchy crap. Not that any of the daughters couldn’t have run those ranches—and done it better.