Chasing Her Trail (Erotic Romance)

Jessie stood on the front porch, two steps back from the loose board that had threatened to splinter last time she’d stepped on it. It was her invisible barrier and current protector. Or maybe in this case, that crumbling board was his protector.

Heart throbbing in her throat, anger coursing through her veins, she had to remain behind the step or else she might claw his eyes out.
Damn garden. She had always imagined looking her best the next time she saw Quinn Flannigan. A passing bit of beauty to make him sorry for the way he’d treated her. Not that she was a stunning model by any means, but at least shaved legs and clean clothes making her feel beautiful would have been nice for this moment.

As Quinn drew closer, happy-go-lucky smile on his slender lips she’d like to make fat, little bounce in his step like he ruled the world, she rather wished she wasn’t staring at him at all. She’d just as soon as rot in hell than speak with this…this ass.

She put her hand up, halting him on the path to her home. She would scrub every single one of those stone steps he stood on with bleach and for good measure, sanitize the air. It would be worth sparing her few cleaning supplies to remove all trace of his presence. “Get the hell off my property.”

“Jessie,” he cooed and the purr from the back of his throat rolling over his tongue did nothing to her.

Well, nothing pleasurable. Itched her to step over that rotting board, that was for damn sure. But doing so would mean she would have to touch him. She nearly shuddered at the thought of that alone, but refused to give in, would not let him see anything about her. “Get. Off. My. Property.”

The screen door at her back creaked. Wind from it swinging wide and then slamming closed with a hair-raising crack slapped against her back. Air collected in her lungs and held there while she hoped and prayed the door would not fall off the hinges from the rough treatment. Thankfully it held.

Her cousin, Tiffany, was at her side, rifle set against her shoulder, bullet being clicked into place and the supposed charming smile—though Jessie rather thought it smarmy—finally faltered on Quinn’s face.
Tiffany eyed down the new gun her husband had bought her a month ago. The gun her cousin had just learned to handle and shoot straight. Jessie would well imagine she had the sights targeted directly on Quinn’s balls. Cruel to some, but perfectly fine with Jessie.
Tiffany rolled her head, cracking a single joint in her neck and reset her sights. “What do you know, Mike was right. This thing is useful after all.”

“Mike…Gable?” Quinn asked, his color paling to a satisfying shade of sickly white.

Everyone in these parts knew Mike was the local law. And everyone, including Quinn who hadn’t lived here in some five years, also knew Tiffany’s whims and decisions ran about as hot and cold as weather in South Arkansas. You never really knew what you were gonna get, and if you weren’t happy with it, it’d change in an instant anyway.

Confidence curled like warm, soothing liquid through Jessie’s tight muscles. She knew one day she’d likely run into Quinn again. This moment just turned, well, awesome at the sight of him squirming his legs like he was trying not to shit his pants. “Yes. They’ve been married for six months now.”

“Seven.” Tiffany corrected, one of those dreamy love boat smiles curved her lips and made Jessie’s heart squeeze in painful delight.
“Right. Seven.” Jessie’s middle was cramping, stomach contents rolling and churning her all-over-the-place emotions. Heartache. Pride. Fear. Confidence. It all twisted her earlier lunch around in her belly, but as Quinn continued to back away, it was worth putting up with. Quinn had never been afraid of her and he knew damn good and well if she told Tiffany to put a bullet between his legs, Tiffany would do it without hesitation. “Now leave.”

He didn’t leave. “I have a proposition for you.”

The cracking in her chest somehow shattered even further. Ribs on the edge of breaking. Lungs gasped for a way to keep breathing. She would not crumble before him. Would not. “Not a snowy chance in hell.”