Read A Bet Worth Making (Grayson County #2) for Free Online

even spent some days off crunching numbers, setting up a budget, and cataloging my spare parts. If Frank knew that, he’d probably have a coronary. But I didn’t want to spoil the follow-through with a bunch of empty talk. So, for now, I’d rent out the room and save my pennies. Which meant I needed to get home and face this Jordan character. And make it work.
    The screen door was cracked open, the main door swung wide. That was the first thing I noticed when I pulled up in a cloud of late-afternoon dust. I slid to a stop, skidding sideways as I pulled up alongside my pickup, and knocked the kickstand into place at the same time I cut the engine.
    No helmet to remove. Probably stupid. Okay, definitely stupid. But I’d stuck to dirt roads and grass fields as I took my time getting home. And sometimes I just needed the wind cutting across my face.
    I squinted in the angled light at a slender figure on the porch. Probably Summer. Waiting to confront me about tearing out of work and leaving Jordan hanging. I braced myself, but the figure I saw as I approached wasn’t a familiar head of hair, though it was decidedly female.
    I dismounted and whipped back for a second look. And stopped dead.
    Definitely female.
    Dark blonde with a few lighter shades streaking through. Pale skin with a tint of pink on her cheeks. Long, smooth legs stretched the length of the porch step, soaking up the rays. The setting sun had absolutely nothing to do with it. This chic was scorching hot.
    I strode toward the house, a curious half-smile on my lips, a “hello there” on the tip of my tongue. As I neared, I saw that the pink tinge coloring the fair-haired beauty’s cheeks was more of a red flush. There was a beer in her hand—a fact that somehow made her more attractive—and I spotted two more empties cast aside nearby.
    Shit, how long had she been out here? And why was she out here? Was she a friend of this Jordan person? Hell, was she his girlfriend?
    God, please don’t let this beautiful woman belong to my new roommate. That would just be mean.
    Suddenly, the girl’s eyes swung my way and narrowed viciously. The hello I’d been about to offer was chased away by her heated stare. Very deliberately, she raised a beer to her lips—my beer, I realized with a jolt as I recognized the label—and took a swig. I watched her throat contract as she swallowed and, against all conscious intent, I felt my jeans tighten. Well, shit.
    “Can I help you?” she asked coolly.
    I raised a brow at that. “I live here. Can I help you ?”
    “You…?” Her death-ray stare turned confused then horrified. “What do you mean? Who are you?”
    “I’m Casey Luck. This is my house,” I said, slowly and with plenty of enunciating.
    Was she slow? Had the heat gotten to her? God, please don’t let the beautiful woman on my porch be mentally handicapped.
    This was, by far, the most praying I’d done in years.
    Her horrified expression intensified to something like outrage. “You’re Casey?” She jumped up, crumpling her can of beer in her fist. Impressive. I hoped it was empty, though. What a waste. “ You’re Casey?” she repeated. “You’re sure?”
    “Uh, yep. For about twenty-five years now. So, yeah, pretty damn sure.” She stared at me in a way that made me shift my weight and question my own identity for a split second. “Is there something wrong? Are you here with…?” I trailed off as I spotted a single duffel bag behind her. I did a quick check of the yard. Empty besides me and Unstable. “Wait … where’s your boyfriend?” I asked, swinging back to her intense blue eyes.
    “I don’t have a boyfriend.” Her tone could’ve cut granite.
    I stared at the single bag again. It was gender-neutral save for the small pink ribbon tied to the handle. My eyes widened and I realized I’d been the slow one. No, wait. I’d been played. “You’re Jordan?”
    “Obviously,” she snapped.
    “Huh.” I eyed her again and decided it was