Jacy plopped down among outfits littering her bed that were too revealing, too staid, or too out of date. She was screwed. She’d lost herself in the fantasy of just how manly Trace Blackwell was and didn’t have the wherewithal to calmly pick out a proper outfit. “It’s a freaking picnic,” she yelled holding up a short frilly skirt, then slamming the scrunched up shirt in her now balled fist onto the bed.
She couldn’t blame it on his tight jeans and T-shirts. She couldn’t blame it on muscles honed to perfection from hard work. Merciful heavens, she couldn’t even blame it on his body, the one she experienced in a night of drunken passion.
Good Lord it was none of that and all of that, and just Trace. The man, sex on legs, pulled all the right heartstrings. How had he turned the tables on her so fast? She’d done the unthinkable in the wee hours of the morning; texted Trace agreeing to see him again, but made it clear, in her mind at least, they were not dating.
They were clearly dating. Five dates in three weeks. She laid her head in her hands and wanted to let out a scream in frustration. It and excitement battled inside her daily. She admitted she liked Trace was actually beginning to fall for him, which she knew better than to, and that was where her frustration took over. Her fears were founded. He thought she was that girl. The one who craved excitement.