Free Used (Unlovable, #1) (Unlovable Series) by Lynetta Halat

Six
    Ransom
    S HE’S WITHOUT A doubt the most beautiful rider I’ve ever seen. And her spunk? Holy shit. It’s not arrogance. She’s just that good and is that confident about it. I can’t think of anything sexier.
    When I saw her ride in Texas last spring, I was intrigued. When I officially met her last night, I was encouraged. But ever since I saw her checking out my truck this morning, I’m convinced she’s the girl I want to break all my rules for.
    Last night, when she got pushed into me, all I could smell were daisies and sunshine … and those eyes. I shake my head at myself. I got lost in those warm, honeyed eyes of hers. We just started to have a promising conversation when she spotted Greer. Sucks.
    As she prepares to take her second practice run with Liberty, I watch in awe as I recognize the same sort of pattern that I take up with my bulls. She waits, she feels, she assesses, then she fucking goes for it. She’s intuitive yet knowledgeable. When she senses Liberty’s readiness, she doesn’t hold back. She rounds the first barrel, with a grin this time. I could tell she wasn’t quite happy with her first run, which is amusing, because she outrode everyone who came before her, and not by just a little bit. When she takes the second barrel even faster than she took it the first time, my eyes widen. She never touches the saddle horn. She hangs on with her feet and her legs as Liberty almost lays them flat going around the barrels. Liberty digs so deep that chunks of dirt spray the fence in her wake. Her tiny grin gets a little bigger as she sprints off to the third. This time, she has the right space between the horse and the barrel to make the perfect pocket. She knows it, and I know it. And as she turns back toward me to head out, her grin is full blown. Denver and her mare make a pretty picture with their blonde hair flowing behind them as they sprint toward the gate. I don’t even look at her time because the smile on her face tells it all. She beat her last time.
    An elbow jabs in my side, and Austin whistles. “Holy fuck,” he chimes in wonder. “That girl. That girl’s good. And F.I.N.E. fine. A fine piece of ass, I tell ya. Oh, I bet she’d give me a wild ride.” This is close to what he’s been saying about most of the girls all morning. But when he says it about Denver, it’s a lot more enthusiastic.
    Before I can say anything or punch the shit out of him, the anger radiating from Greer, who’s been standing a couple feet away, surrounds us. He was engaged in a conversation before Austin’s loud proclamation. I stay quiet, curious to hear what he has to say.
    “Hey, peckerhead,” Greer calls out.
    “What, man?” Austin answers, unruffled. That’s because he knows he is, in fact, a peckerhead. I can’t help but grin and have to firmly bite my tongue to keep from laughing.
    “See that girl there who just rode?” Greer asks with a gesture in Denver’s direction.
    Still oblivious to Greer’s pissed-off tone, Austin shouts, “Hell, yeah! That’s who I’m talking about. She’s shit-hot.”
    Greer strides over our way a bit but doesn’t lower his voice, wanting, I’m sure, to make his stance known to every horny cowboy within a hundred mile radius. “That girl is special,” he says. That throws me. I expected him to say she’s mine and stay away. That’s what most guys in his position would say. “She doesn’t need a no-count peckerheaded cow boy ”—the way he emphasizes boy almost makes me lose it again—“like you leering at her while she goes about her business. You got me? Keep your eyes to yourself. Keep your hands to yourself. Most importantly, keep your dick to yourself.”
    Austin throws his hands out like he’s indicating his innocence. “Aw, now. No harm in looking, Greer. You didn’t say shit when we were checking out those other girls.”
    “Like I said, she’s not just another girl. So hands off.”
    “Well, cowboy, let me assure you,” Austin