Free Unleashed: Declan & Kara (Unleashed #1-4; Beg for It #1) by Callie Harper Page A

to do the looking. Sadly, I did. I
couldn’t help myself. The handful of other guys working on the
ranch were all polite, friendly. When I’d come around and see if
they were hungry or thirsty, bringing them a little something, they’d
all thank me kindly. Not Declan, though. He’d stay real busy with
something or other. It was almost like he was avoiding me.
    I set the pitcher down,
my eyes adjusting to the darkness after the bright April sunshine.
With high ceilings and exposed rafters, I loved the barn. It almost
felt like church to me. We kept hay, equipment and tools there and I
breathed in, looking up at the sunlight streaming in through a few
loose boards up top.
    Something moved over in
the corner by a tractor.
    “Hello?” I called
out.
    No answer.
    “Bill? That you? I
brought some lemonade.”
    A distinctly male grunt
came from behind the tractor.
    “Are you OK?” I
made my way over and found Declan kneeling on the wooden floorboards,
twisting a wrench or something on a something. I couldn’t quite
follow what was happening because he wasn’t wearing a shirt. I took
a stumbling step back. He looked up, that sardonic, half-amused,
half-mocking expression he usually wore on his face.
    “’Sup, Betty
Crocker? You bake me a cake today?”
    “Um, no!” I took
another step back. I’d never seen him without his shirt. I’d
imagined it before, but even my wildest fantasies hadn’t gotten me
this far. He was so defined, so hard, all muscle with a few veins
traveling down his biceps, near his neck, down below at the waist of
his jeans. I swallowed hard, my throat completely dry, my eyes as
round as saucers.
    “Feeling OK,
princess?” He gave me a knowing look. He knew what was making me
nearly pass out.
    “Um, I think it’s
the heat.” It wasn’t the heat. Not radiating from the sun,
anyway. I tried to look away. I knew I was being an idiot, but he had
tattoos. Two of them, one on his shoulder, the other around his
bicep. The one on his shoulder looked like it said something, the
other looked like a pattern stretched taut across his large, bulging
muscle. Dear lord, I really might pass out.
    “Why don’t you run
along home now? Go cool off.” He waved a wrench at me.
    That made me look away.
He was such a jerk. Why did he always brush me off like a pesky fly?
    “Do you want some
lemonade?” I asked, my voice shy and whispery. I was such a
13-year-old around him.
    “Nope.” He turned
his attention back to the tractor.
    “Is it broken?” I
really didn’t want to leave yet. Maybe if I feigned interest in the
tractor I could go stand next to him.
    “No, it’s working
fine. I just felt like coming in here and messing around with it.”
    “Really? Why?” I
asked, taking a step closer.
    He looked up at me like
I was a moron and I realized that I was. It was broken. He was being
sarcastic. I could feel myself blushing, a deep crimson flush working
its way up across my chest, neck and face. I hadn’t factored in
that possibility when I’d so carefully chosen my outfit. The more
exposed skin meant the more embarrassingly obvious it would be if I
blushed.
    “You pink right up,
don’t you?” He had his wrench resting on his thigh and he watched
me now with dark eyes.
    “My skin’s just…
sensitive.” I shrugged, wishing I could disappear into the
floorboards.
    “Um hmm.” Good
lord, how did he make that sound so sexy? It came out like a deep
rumble in this throat. Suddenly the word ‘sensitive’ seemed
ridiculously suggestive. He made me so aware of myself, the way the
cotton of my dress clung to my shape, how short the hemline really
was, ending several inches up my thighs. I swallowed again and I
swear it was so loud it echoed.
    I felt so nervous, and
when I got nervous I babbled. “I hate how I blush. I don’t know
why, but I’ve always blushed really deep red ever since I was a
kid.”
    He shook his head and
returned his focus to the tractor. “You are a kid. Now let me get
back to