A False Start: A Small Town Brother’s Best Friend Romance (Gold Rush Ranch Book 4)
A False Start: Chapter 12

I’m halfway back across the field when I realize we didn’t confirm a riding lesson tomorrow. We were too busy laughing about how fucked up we are.

Standing at the top of the hill that separates the main parts of the barn from the guesthouse, I weigh my options. I don’t even have the guy’s number, and I’m right here. We just ended on good terms. There’s no reason I can’t walk back and ask for another lesson.

I’ll say please and everything.

With a heavy sigh, I turn and walk back down the gentle slope toward the wooden A-frame. It’s a beautiful little spot, the way it’s nestled into the trees with the paddocks just out the back door, and the gravel driveway that circles the entire way around it. So full of charm.

It has me wondering what Griffin’s place up the mountain is like. Is it cozy like this? Or is it a sparsely decorated bachelor pad? Does he take women back there? Has anyone ever lived with him? Is he even single?

Those questions send a bolt of anxiety through me, but I talk myself down. I honestly can’t really see it.

He seems so self-conscious about the stutter. To be honest, I don’t even notice it, because I’m too busy gawking at him. That ass in a pair of jeans? The tattooed forearm porn he’s constantly flashing? Dark hair and equally dark eyes and all the meaning-filled glares?

Wet dreams are made of him. He’s the guy your mom tells you to stay away from. Lucky for me, my mom was about as absent as they come. Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ FɪndNøvel.ɴᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

And even if she hadn’t been, I probably wouldn’t listen to anyone who told me to stay away from Griffin Sinclaire.

I’m not so sure about his personality, but the man is fuckable beyond compare. Which is fine because I’m not sure I’m equipped for much more than meaningless encounters. The therapist I saw while living in the city was pretty sure I wasn’t—much as I’d like to be.

Back at the house, I tiptoe up to the back door, not wanting to disturb him if he’s already turned in for the night. It’s wide open. He’s just left the screen door to cover the opening.

It’s a balmy night, and I imagine a small place like this can benefit from a little flow through between the doors.

I’m about to knock, my fist poised to tap against the thin metal beside the screen. But I stop in my tracks.

I freeze.

Because from where I’m standing, I have an uninterrupted view of the couch. The one in the open living space that Griffin is sitting on.

The one he’s sitting on with his pants pulled down. The one he’s sitting on while he fists his bare cock.

His knees are spread wide, and his shirtless torso relaxes back into the cushions. His eyes are closed, hair mussed, head tipped back, lips parted while he pumps his dick into his hand.

He’s an Adonis. The definition in his body is insane. Broad, round, tattoo covered shoulders that give way into his chest. His collarbones jut out over defined pectorals with just the right amount of hair to make him even more masculine than already he is.

My mouth waters, or dries out—I’m not sure which—as my eyes trace the lines that extend up over his hip bones. The ones beside his chiseled abs, pointing straight down to all the action.

I lick my lips hungrily. It’s very unladylike the way I’m gawking at him right now, the way I’m spying on him. But when his teeth sink into his lip to stifle a moan, his Adam’s apple bobs beneath the light stubble that fans out beneath his beard, and suddenly I don’t feel bad about spying at all.

He left the door open, and I’m not a lady anyhow. So, this is fine.

The dry pumping sound of his palm against the silky skin of his cock is only slightly less erotic than the deep growling sound he makes when his hips buck forward, back arching with pleasure.

All I can think about is that I could go crawl on top of him. We could call it a riding lesson and he could teach me everything he knows.

I press my thighs together at the thought. He’d kill me. Scratch that, he’d say “Nadia” and drag out the last syllable in that distinctly crabby way he often does.

But it wouldn’t deter me. Because clearly, I have no boundaries. If I were polite, I’d walk away and never mention this again. I’d forget about it.

Unfortunately, best-case scenario at this current juncture is that the mental image of Griffin jacking off on the couch becomes my fodder for doing the same.

Accepting the fact I’m comfortable being a Peeping Tom, I drop my hand and let it fall over my throat to cover the blush that’s overtaking me right now.

I want to burn this into my mind, so I’ll never forget it.

The pearl of wetness at the head of his cock is a tease. My tongue darts out again as I imagine all the things I would do if I had the balls to push this door open and make my presence known. The man’s cock is even beautiful. A big fucking weapon, and I’m not above admitting that I want him to hurt me with it.

His pace ratchets up, his chest rising and falling more rapidly as he nears release. Perspiration glimmers on his skin. Slickness forms between my thighs along with that familiar coiling tension just behind my hip bones. I’m riveted, absolutely getting off on playing voyeur to a man that is so out of bounds it’s not even funny.

My heavy breathing falls into sync with his pants. His empty hand claws at the couch cushion until it finds the T-shirt that’s been discarded there. And not a moment too soon, because I can see him barreling toward his release and it might be the most sensual thing I’ve ever seen.

And then he proves me wrong.

“Fuck, Nadia.” He growls my name, and it’s like a shot of electricity straight to my core.

He covers his swollen cock with the spare shirt and empties himself with my name on his lips.

I can’t help it, I gasp. And then my hand flies over my mouth, as though I can cover the sound in the otherwise quiet cottage.

His head flips my direction, startled. But instead of saying anything, he stares at me. Smolders. Glares.

I don’t know what it is exactly, but it makes me weak in the knees. It makes me red in the cheeks.

It makes me wet in the panties.

“I . . . Um . . . Riding lesson tomorrow?”

His cheeks are pink with exertion and his cum-covered cock is still in his hand, and that’s what I say? I’m not nearly as smooth as I think I am and just looking at Griffin kills my brain cells on the best of days.

This is not the best of days.

The way he’s glaring at me right now is confirmation of that.

“Okaythanksbye,” I rush out.

And with that, I bolt.

“Heels down.” Griffin manhandles my ankle into the position he wants it.

We’re back to the ornery version of him. The crabby face. The single syllable words.

And definitely no laughter that warms me to the very tips of my toes.

I guess that’s what I get for invading his privacy. That show was not for me to watch, and after sleeping on it, I’m feeling guilty about not walking away.

So, we’re not really talking. Instead, his gruff hands tell me what to do. I’m sitting on Spot, and he’s criticizing my position—like I should know this shit—constantly.

He clucks at Spot and steps away, letting the length of rope attached to the bridle extend between us. I’m riding in a large circle around Griffin, attached to the line for extra control.

“You ready?” He’s avoiding saying the word trot. But that’s what we’re working on, trotting. One gait faster than walking, and I want to gallop on the beach, so let’s get this show on the road.

I nod and give Spot a squeeze with my legs. He’s a well-trained horse, so he steps into a trot instantly. I try to keep my core tight, but I fall a little behind the motion—and I’m almost positive my heels come up.

I try to sit gently in the saddle, but I’m still getting bounced around like a rag doll. I sneak a glance at Griffin and notice the corners of his lips pulling up, confirming I do, in fact, look like a rag doll.

“Are you laughing at me, Sinclaire?” I ask, attempting to hold my hands still. How is riding a horse so much harder than it seems?

His mouth thins. He’s trying way too hard to cover up that smile. “Whoa, boy.” He holds his hand up, and Spot stops on a dime. I am literally just a passenger.

Griffin loops the rope around his hand as he approaches me again, face straining as he clearly forces himself to frown so that he doesn’t laugh. Stick in the mud.

“Alright. You’re too rigid in your seat.” He reaches up and grabs my hip bone, and I do my best to ignore the way his touch makes me ache, even atop my jeans. His hands on me are almost more than I can take. “This joint here”—he pushes on the bone—“is stuck. You need to loosen your hips so you can absorb the shock of the movement.”

I turn wide eyes on Griffin and waggle my eyebrows in his direction.

He scowls. “Nadia.”

I hold my hands up to prove my innocence. “Hey, you said it. Not me.”

I swear he growls. But he doesn’t feed into my leading comment. Total stick in the mud.

The worst part is it doesn’t deter me from soaking him up. Strong hands, inked forearms that ripple under the warm summer sun, and the two lines that form between his brows when he scowls at me. I want to see the lines near his eyes crinkle when he smiles. That’s what my dreams are made of. Older, growly, protective men.

Especially one named Griffin Sinclaire.

Hearing him laugh undid something that was holding me back, and I swear all I dreamt about last night was being manhandled by him.

Dreaming about my big brother’s best friend strikes me as a bad idea, but the more time I spend around Griffin, the more I wonder why I even bother trying to deny it. Why is it so bad?

I’ve never been attracted to someone the way I am to Griffin. The fourteen years between us aren’t a deterrent for me at all. In fact, I’m almost positive they add to the fantasy.

A dull throb takes root behind my hip bone, right where the tips of his fingers just dug in, and in an attempt to clench my thighs, my heels come up.

His hand shoots out, cupping the back of my ankle and pulling down steadily. “I said down, Nadia.” His voice is so authoritative, his entire delicious body filled with so much tension right now. With his broad chest puffed up, he’s like an overfull balloon, ready to explode.

I get off on his intensity. It makes the lighter moments much more rewarding. Butterflies dance in my stomach when I look down and see his hand on my body.

And then he mutters, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you just want me to force you into position.”

His eyes shoot to mine from beneath the low-slung brim of his cap, a pink hue staining his tanned cheeks.

I should ignore it. I should really, really ignore it. That’s the mature thing to do, but . . . the spirited twenty-one-year-old in me comes out to play.

A smile takes over my face. “Maybe I do.”

His jaw pulses, and I can almost hear his teeth grind. “Go again,” he bites out, completely ignoring my innuendo-drenched comment.

And then I’m back to riding in circles, practicing relaxing my hips while Griffin barks instructions at me.

I’m fucked up enough to kind of get off on it, too.

By the end of our lesson, I’m exhausted. But not too exhausted to make a joke about how he worked me so long and hard that my legs are about to give out.

He tries to scowl at me, but I swear he almost smiles.

“I’m here to pick up my dog.”

The door slams, and I glance up from where I sit at the front desk of the clinic. And I do a double take.

Because a cleaned-up Griffin Sinclaire is standing before me, and I literally feel my mouth dry out and my kitty flutter. And by cleaned-up, I mean hair slicked back, beard trimmed, white Henley, and dark wash jeans.

The man is a fucking snack. And I let my mind wander back to how he looked with his cock in his hand. It’s branded into my brain. Right where it belongs.

He doesn’t try too hard to look put together, it’s just the way he carries himself with confidence. Like he can make a woman come so hard that her vision goes black. It’s effortless, and I’m sure he has no idea he gives off that vibe. Or maybe that’s the athlete in him.

“Are you done with work?”

“Um . . .” I swivel around, like he’s talking to someone else. Especially considering the man has all but avoided me for the last several days. Even when I’m at his house to groom my horse and cold hose his swollen leg, he doesn’t come out.

I’m sure he thinks I don’t notice him peeking at me out his kitchen window, but I do.

Boys are dumb like that.

“Me?” I tap a finger against my chest.

He crosses his arms and sighs, like I’m the most exasperating person in the world. “Who else, Nadia?”

I mean, fair point. “Yup. Yes. I can lock up in . . .” I trail off and check my watch. “Five minutes.” Griffin showing up here is throwing me off. I’m fumbling around. Like he can see what I’ve been thinking about when I use my showerhead in ways it’s not really intended. Don’t even try to tell me a woman didn’t design a removable showerhead.

If he can tell, he doesn’t show it. “Okay. I’ll get my dog while I wait. Mira said I could get him t—now.” Today. He wanted to say today. So, we’re both back to being awkward around each other.

“Wait for what?”

He pushes through the door toward the back where Tripod is. “Got something to show you.”

He comes back with the small, white, wiggly little dog under one arm, carrying him like he’s a football. And I swear I spend the next five minutes crumbling under the silence between us, staring at the watch on my wrist, and trying not to gawk at how insanely sexy Griffin is with the small rescue dog in his lap. The one trying desperately to lick his face. The one who isn’t deterred at all by the gentle hand that continually tries to redirect his excitement.

Me too, little buddy. Me too.

“Okay!” I almost shout it, so relieved to get out of the too-quiet clinic. “I’m done. What do you need to show me?”

“We have to drive there.” Griffin doesn’t even glance up at me. He’s too enamored with his new pet. All his features have softened, and he hugs the dog to his chest protectively.

My ovaries ache. I swear they do. This big grumpy recluse, hugging a fluffy ten-pound dog? It’s more than an animal loving gal like me can handle.

“Drive where?”

“Don’t worry about it.” He glances at me. “Do you want to change?” My pink scrubs are clearly not appropriate for whatever secret field trip he has planned.

“Uh sure? Do I need riding clothes?”

“No.” He follows me out the door, still gazing down at Tripod.

I hate surprises.

“How long will this take?” I ask, entering the alarm code and locking the door behind us.

“Less long if you stop asking so many questions.” With no brim to hide behind, I can see the amusement dancing in his eyes as plain as day.

I think Griffin Sinclaire just made fun of me.

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