Sloth (Sinful Secrets 1)

I whirl around, halfway hoping Kellan chase me. When my self-restraint runs dry and I look over my shoulder, I find him smiling, definitely amused.

The cocky fucker.

I walk up and down the room a bunch of times, pretending I’m on a documentary and marveling at the plants. Many are taller than I am. They’re so green. So... real. The marijuana I bought from Kennard came in several large, round containers—a little like the canisters that zip from the bank to the drive-through line. To me, weed has always seemed almost synthetic. Sometimes the crystals have an orange tint, other times a purple hue. They have various scents and there are various strains. But I never bother much with that, or give much thought to where it came from. So I’m surprised to see it in its raw plant form. It looks so innocent and unassuming.

I stop in front of a particularly tall, spindly plant on a platform labeled TIGER’S CLAW. After rubbing my fingertip along one of its soft, thin leaves, I let my gaze wander to the far end of the room. Kellan’s in the same spot he was a few minutes ago: standing in front of a platform of smaller plants. His head is bowed, as if he’s inspecting them. I’m admiring the width of his shoulders like the girl perv I am when he crouches, poking at the soil in one of the pots. A jolt of lust bursts through me, thinking of his fingers poking something else. I take a long, deep breath and look away.

I don’t know why he gets me so damn hot. It’s probably the mystery. He’s a golden god from California, who is both SGA president and some kind of drug kingpin, who’s never appe

ared around our town with any woman—until the last four months.

And one of the only things I know about his personality is that after I busted his balls, he called me hours later for some panty-melting phone sex. That, and he’s willing to pay me like a prostitute to... well, prostitute. Except it isn’t prostitution, because it’s not just about the money for me. It’s about this weed business, and it’s about those thick, hard shoulders, too.

The more I think about the deal he’s offered, the more I think that this could work out really well for me. Could.

When I make my way back to Kellan, he’s standing again, staring pensively down at the plants, one hand cupped loosely over his mouth. I stop slightly behind him, checking the label in front of the platform: SILENT STALKER. Hmm.

“What ya thinking about, Farmer Kello?”

He lowers his hand. His mouth twitches on one side, revealing the ghost of a dimple. “Farmer Kello?” His expression is hung between disapproval and amusement.

I smile and nod. “All you need is a straw hat and some overalls.”

“Is that all?” He gives me a wicked look that goes straight to my panties, but it fades after a breath into a smirk that, this time, features the reappearance of that adorably handsome dimple. In that heartbeat, he looks so unlike the Kellan Walsh I usually know, I’m buoyed by affection. I throw my arms around his waist and press my cheek against his back.

“I know where your grow house is, na na na na na naaaa!” I squeeze him. “It makes me happy that you brought me here.”

He sets his hands on mine. I can feel the hesitation in the way they flutter for a moment before settling. “Does it?” he says, sounding serious.

I nod against his hard, warm back. “I like to be trusted. I’m a trustworthy person. You’ll find out.”

He cuts his eyes over his shoulder. “How?”

Nervous elation coils under my ribs—from the weight of his gaze at such a close proximity. I shrug and try to keep my voice light. “When rival drug dealers kidnap me and hold me for ransom, they’ll have to torture me for, like, seven hours straight before I reveal this address.” I wink, as if my hands aren’t shaking slightly as they rest atop his hips. Maybe he senses that in me: the giddy nerves, the banked hunger. Because at that moment, he turns to face me. My hands brush the top of his slacks as his rise up to cup my face. His fingers stroke into my hair.

“I won’t let you get kidnapped, Cleo.”

“Because you’ll loan me Truman,” I joke weakly.

“No—because I’m going to take care of you. Like I said.”

For one hard heartbeat, I wonder if he’s joking. The guileless intensity of his face, the way he’s stroking my hair: as if it’s second-nature to him to touch me gently... It’s easier to imagine he’s about to grin and add “in bed” to the end of that earnest-sounding declaration. I wait for it, but his expression never changes.

With one final, light stroke of his thumb over my brow, he lowers his hands and takes a half step back.

My heart gives a few slow, off-beat thu-WUNKs before I realize I’m staring. I spin around, because damnit, when I get embarrassed, my feet move without permission. “Wait, where’s Truman?” I turn back around to Kellan with my arms out. “Did we lose him somewhere?”

God, my awkwardness is so obvious. I glance around the room, and when I’m brave enough to look at Kellan, he’s smirking. This one is curved upward at the corners, as if he thinks I’m funny but has something against the act of smiling.

“Truman’s not allowed in here. He knows it.”

“Aw, that’s kind of sad.”

Again, that smirk—but this time it seems pained. “You like him.”

“I’ve always been obsessed with hounds, and Truman is like... a proto-hound.”

Kellan laughs. At least it should have been a laugh. He turns it into a weird, low laugh-cough thing, covering his mouth with his hand and shaking his head.