August: Calendar Girl Book 8 Read Online Free PDF Page A

in his voice hit my heart and squeezed. Not with desire but a faint hint of something else. A familiarity shimmered across my senses, like a long lost dream I’d had, remembering it when I awoke, but unable to place the pieces appropriately. “Sugar, you okay?” Another large hand held my other arm. I glanced at both of his huge hands. The nails were clean, cut straight as if he’d recently trimmed them.
    I stepped back, but he clasped my arms tighter. “I’m uh, okay. Sorry.” I blinked several times, trying to clear my head. “Do we know each other?”
    His grin widened. “No, but over the next month, I reckon we will get to know one another mighty well. I’m Maxwell Cunningham. Max for short.” He held out a beefy hand. The calluses rubbed along my palm, scratching the tender flesh sharply. He wore a yellow polo shirt stretched tight over a broad muscled chest, if the contours through the fabric were any indication. The trim of his shirt sleeves around his bulging biceps looked as though it would tear at any moment with the sheer size of his muscles. With the polo, which incidentally, looked really good on his frame, he wore dark Wranglers with a wide leather belt complete with a silver buckle that was at least three inches wide and two inches tall with a gold star dead center. His feet were covered in a pair of dusty rust-colored cowboy boots that matched his belt. My guess, he’d made an effort to match them. As I took in his attire, he took in mine. Those green eyes, so like my own, scanned my simple sundress and sandals. My hair was loose and black curls flowed everywhere.
    “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice coming out gritty as if he’d said the words but hadn’t meant to. His eyes were haunted, wounded in a way that made me want to reach out and hug him. I didn’t know why I had that desire, especially after what Aaron had done to me back in DC.
    I looked around at the people passing by and gripped my sundress just to have something to do with my hands. The air between us was uncomfortable, thick, filled with things unsaid. When a man tells a woman she's beautiful and looks at her in a way that nearly guts her, a response of some kind is mandatory. “Um, thank you.”
    His eyes widened. “Oh, uh, sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It’s just you’re pretty, real pretty, and even though I saw your picture, I wasn’t prepared for the living, breathing thing. Hot damn, that didn’t come out right either.” He rubbed the back of his neck and looked down at his feet, a scowl marring his plump lips.
    “Sir, this your truck?” An airport security man wearing a fluorescent vest interrupted our awkward conversation and pointed at the silver Ford F-150.
    “Yeah, some kind of problem?” he asked.
    The man nodded. “If you don’t get a move on, there will be. You’re obstructing traffic. Get going.” He gestured once more to the truck.
    “Oh shoot. Sorry. Mia, this way.” He picked up my suitcase, opened the quad cab door, and tossed it in. Then he opened my door and held out his hand. I looked down at the hand as if it were dipped in acid. “Mia, sugar, I’d never hurt you. I’m a little out of sorts, but if you come back to the ranch, we’ll get you set up and Cyndi will make everything better.” He offered a small smile and kept his hand out.
    When I put my hand in his, I felt that weird sensation again, and something nudged at the frail edges of a memory. It was just on the surface, like when you can’t recall the name of a song, but it’s on the tip of your tongue.
    I stepped into the cab and sat down.
    “Who’s Cyndi?”
    He smiled huge, a big megawatt smile that was unnervingly familiar. I was sure I’d met this man before. Had to. Maxwell wrangled his large form in behind the wheel, put the truck in gear, checked his mirror, and eased out.
    “Cyndi’s my wife.”
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    T wo hours in the truck and we were finally driving up a gravel driveway. A