There she was, utterly gorgeous, the long, dark hair falling over her shoulder. Even in the crappy phone photo, he’d somehow managed to capture the sparkle in her eye, the softness and gentleness of her that made him so damn crazy.

He took his cock in his hand and stroked it, staring at the photo. At Becca.

Normally, getting himself off involved no finesse, no imagination. It was the sexual equivalent of scratching an itch. Sometimes he got antsy and needed to jerk one out in the shower. It happened. He’d think of a pretty face of some actress or another and quickly “scratch the itch” in private, no relationship needed. A magazine used to do the trick until Libby had found it, and then he’d thrown it away.

He’d never jerked off to a woman he actually knew, though just barely.

But hell, just staring at Becca’s picture as he stroked his length made him harder than he’d ever been. He gritted his teeth, working his cock as he gazed at her picture, imagining the feel of her soft hair sliding over his chest, what her tits would look like when she was naked . . . and the little gasps she’d make when he claimed her.

Hank had never come so hard or so fast in his life.

Afterward, he cleaned up and lay back down in bed, staring up at the ceiling. His body was replete, but his head was still churning.

He’d said no to a date. Turned her down flat.

But what if . . . what if he’d said yes? Would she be in his bed even now?

Damn. He was an idiot.

CHAPTER SEVEN

One Month Later

Becca pulled up to the Swinging C and slid her small car between the two big gray trucks parked in their usual spots. She’d come to think of this as “her” parking space, which was silly, but it made her smile to pull in every time. The predawn morning was rather beautiful, the air no longer bitingly crisp, and she’d put on a sundress and worn strappy sandals. She picked up her daily box of doughnuts—those cowboys sure did love their doughnuts—and headed inside with a paper cup of foamy latte in her hand. The bakery made all kinds of crazy coffee drinks, and since she was up this early, that deserved something involving whip and mocha, she felt.

The door to the ranch house opened before she even stepped onto the porch, and Hank was there, watching her.

He didn’t greet her—never did. But he always had the door open for her, as if he was waiting on her to arrive. And that made her stomach flutter in all kinds of ways.