Read Nailed (Marked For Love #1) Online
Authors: Amie Stuart
Nailed (Marked For Love #1) (22 page)
"I just don’t want you gettin’ all attached."
Theresa crossed to the empty bed, grabbed a pillow and tucked it behind my head. "You’re far too ornery to get attached to, Miss Stratton."
"Could you...slide the table-tray up here, please ma’am?"
"I thought you’d be ready for a nap after that workout."
"Not quite." I hurt like hell but was too wired to sleep. That would come soon enough.
She silently rolled the table tray within my reach and handed me the laptop from the nightstand. "You need your rest."
"Uh-huh." I deliberately tuned her out, knowing she’d take the hint to go away. I flipped the computer open, suddenly reminded of last night’s personal ad. An old-fashioned man who wanted a virgin and believed in love and loyalty. As an athlete, I'd never smoked, but had a definite weakness for single malt scotch. I’d never been in love but I had the loyalty thing down pat. And I was a virgin. I guess I sort of qualified.
I frowned at the laptop, thinking that must have been one hell of a concussion.
What in Heaven’s name was I thinking?
I was thinking I wanted to write him.
I sighed and went in search of the website we’d been on last night. Many clicks and scrolls later I sat rereading the ad. Did these things even work? What made such a normal-sounding man place a personal ad?
Pic available upon request.
All I could do was ask, right?
I couldn’t believe I'd even consider it—answering a personal ad? Looking was one thing but replying to an ad was another.
I don’t care if they do advertise it on television.
And if Jace found out. . . I shuddered. He’d never,
ever
let me live it down. I might not know a ton about relationships, but I knew I was a good judge of character, even over the internet, and there was something earnest and sincere about the ad that got to me.
I signed up for a free trial, then clicked on appropriate buttons and typed a note as fast as my bad shoulder would let me, fully aware of time passing. Aware that any minute now Kane would show up with my lunch.
Dear ArtZee,
I've never answered a personal ad before, but yours caught my eye. It sounds like we both want the same thing, love and commitment. I'm short and athletic with black hair and blue eyes. I was born and raised in Montana, and grew up on a ranch.
And I’m a washed up rodeo cowgirl. A cripple with a crooked nose. Maybe you saw my bone-crunching, replay-worthy wipeout on ESPN? This was stupider than letting Daddy train me to ride broncs, but he sounded sweet. After another fifteen minutes of teeth gnashing, I decided to fall back on my accounting degree—that I'd barely gotten and
never
used.
I'm 26, and currently live and work as an accountant in Vernal, Utah. I know that's a long way from Texas, but I'm willing to relocate if the circumstances are right. I look forward to hearing from you . . . Jessa
I scanned it again. Did people really meet this way? My email sounded kind of weak but it would have to do. He probably wouldn’t write back anyway. Right? But just in case, I backspaced and replaced "Jessa" with "Hope"—my middle name—and added one last thing:
P. S. I’m also a virgin
The sound of boots in the hall caught my attention. With a trembling finger, I clicked 'send' and watched it hurl into cyberspace. There. A few more taps and I opened up an online game website.
Kane stepped in the doorway and shook the bag in his hand. "Hungry?"
I smiled up at him, praying he didn’t notice how skittish I was. "I could eat a little something."
"I expect you to eat a lot of something."
I ate my rotisserie chicken, mashed potatoes and a double order of broccoli like a good girl. John Kane was one of the few people who could get away with ordering me around or calling me by my full first name—Jessalyn—and live to tell about it.
From all accounts, he’d always been a loner on the circuit, and that weather-beaten face hid a heart of gold that few people took the time to see. Despite all the rumors about us, we’d never had
that
kind of relationship, but the ladies couldn’t seem to get past his dark, wavy hair and intense green eyes—a classic dark handsome stranger. As much as he knew about me, I'd realized long ago that John Kane wasn't interested in sharing—at least not his past.
He used to laughingly tell me he'd crawled out of a Louisiana swamp and onto the back of a horse. I'd quickly set aside my curiosity and been happy to have another friend. He fell someplace between a big brother and an uncle and we'd spent many a Thanksgiving and Christmas together at his place on the Texas coast, digging our feet in the sand, or in Vernal, sipping spiked eggnog and trimming the only scraggly tree we'd been able to find. He wasn’t just my best friend but one of the few men on the circuit to treat me as an equal, and that had won him my undying loyalty.
"How was your therapy?"
"Fine. How was your New Year?"
He looked tired, too. Too much New Year’s Eve revelry, I suppose. "Just another night to get drunk and stupid."
I snorted, thankful I hadn’t put that forkful of broccoli in my mouth. "You’re just saying that so I don’t feel bad for being stuck here."
"Speaking of stuck, what do you have planned?"
My future again. "I don’t know." I dropped my fork and swallowed the lump in my throat, my eyes suddenly hot. I didn't even know where to begin.
"Heard from your dad?"
"No."
Kane was the only one who knew just how badly Daddy had hurt me over the years.
"Want me to talk—"
"No! Don’t you dare—promise me, Kane!" Daddy was a lost cause. He’d obviously washed his hands of me, so I’d do likewise.
"Jessalyn, it’s not right, him leaving you here like this, and I don’t like it—" he held up both hands in surrender, "—but I promise."
About The Author
Amie Stuart is the last of a dying breed, a native Texan, and still makes her home there, where cowboys and music (her other two loves) abound. Growing up, she wanted to be a lawyer and a psychologist. No doubt the shrinks would have a field day with her head, but she's seen the error of her ways and considers all those other jobs 'research' for the writing gig.
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Other Works By Amie Stuart
ROPERS RULE
HANDS ON
MAKE U SWEAT
HITTIN IT
ONCE IN A BLUE MOON
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