He hoped she wasn’t bothered by the fact that he’d gotten her number without her permission, and while he waited patiently for a response, knots formed in his stomach.
Not yet. Was about to make something. You?
An overpowering wave of relief swamped him, causing him to lean against the counter. His assuagement wasn’t because she hadn’t had breakfast, although he was happy about that, too. No, his consolation came from the fact that she answered quickly without slamming him with questions.
He typed in a response: Wanna grab a bite somewhere?
Glancing at the coffeemaker, he considered starting a pot, but he didn’t, more so in anticipation of Cheyenne agreeing to let him take her to breakfast.
Sure. Soon, I hope. I’m starving.
Brendon grinned. He knew he was overreacting, getting his hopes up more than he should, but he couldn’t help himself. Rather than dwell on that though, he replied with: I’ll be there in fifteen to pick you up. Cool?
The response was almost instant: I’ll be out front waiting. Sixteen minutes and I’m making my own breakfast.
Shit. Brendon raced to the back door, called for Scrap, leaving the door open while he grabbed the dog food from the cabinet and poured some kibble into one of the empty bowls. He filled the other with water and by that time, Scrap was inside, his tail wagging excitedly.
“I’ll be back, boy. You be good. Hear?”
Not waiting for an answer, Brendon grabbed his boots, yanking them on as he walked around his bedroom, retrieving his wallet and his Mossy Oak cap from the top of his dresser. Somehow he managed not to fall flat on his face, and he considered that a good sign. He grabbed his keys from the hook near the door and then hauled ass to his truck.
He had twelve minutes to go and it would easily take ten minutes to get to her place. He only hoped there weren’t any cops this morning because … well, because they’d just have to chase his ass and give him a ticket when he got to Cheyenne’s.
chapter EIGHT
Cheyenne was perched on the front porch rail, sipping her coffee, when she heard the squeal of tires, followed by an engine being gunned—hard. Glancing down to the end of the street, she saw Brendon’s enormous black Chevy with its bloodred flames turn the corner nearly on two wheels and she couldn’t help but laugh.
She didn’t have a watch and her cell phone was inconveniently inside on the counter, so she didn’t know whether he was on time or not. She hadn’t bothered to look to see what time he should’ve been there, either. Truth was, it didn’t matter. She was happy—quite possibly overly eager—to see him, but she’d wanted to give him a hard time. It had been difficult enough not asking how he’d gotten her phone number. There were a number of ways he could’ve found it—from Travis or Kylie, or possibly from Lorrie—so she wasn’t all that worried about it. However, she fully intended to find out eventually. Call her curious.
The most surprising part had been the text in the first place. She had just finished getting dressed when she’d heard her phone buzz. Being that it was Saturday, she hadn’t really been expecting anyone. These days, she could pretty much count on two hands who had her phone number: her grandmother and the nursing home where she was staying, Preston (her agent), Clayton (her record producer), Travis, Kylie, Lorrie, Curtis, Cooper, and Dalton. Oh, and apparently Brendon. When she’d pulled up the message, her heart had skipped a beat or two before her fingers had gotten with the program. Her grin hadn’t dimmed since she’d read his first message.
But now, Brendon was pulling into her driveway, the sun glinting off the windshield, making it impossible for her to see him. When he climbed out, Cheyenne hopped down from the railing and smiled at the handsome man approaching her. Wearing his customary boots and jeans, he’d paired it with a navy-blue Carhartt T-shirt and a camouflage Mossy Oak ball cap on his head. In a word, Coyote Ridge’s notorious bad boy looked delicious.
“Let me put my mug up and I’m ready,” she informed him before stepping into the house.
Cheyenne realized he had followed her inside when the front screen door didn’t slam behind her, and her heart rate multiplied when she heard his booted footsteps close behind her. After depositing her mug in the sink, she turned and found herself practically plastered up against his enormous body, pinned between him and the counter.
“Mornin’,” he mumbled softly, the deep bass of his voice sending signals to all of her pleasure receptors.
Before she could return the greeting, Brendon had tilted her head up and his mouth was on hers. He tasted like mint and he smelled so damn good. Cheyenne inhaled the intoxicating scent of him. He wasn’t wearing cologne as he had been the night before. No, this was just pure male, mixed with laundry softener. Unable to resist, she wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her nails into his back, her body igniting from the unexpected, yet definitely reciprocated, kiss.