The Bachelor Auction (The Bachelors of Arizona Book 1) by Rachel van Dyken Page B

a drugged sleep envisioned Jane’s sweet mouth.
    It was over in seconds.
    As he spilled into his hand, in a drunken stupor he imagined what the next three weeks might be like if he could live them for himself.
    His sight blurred as the idea washed over him.
    Three weeks where his grandfather wasn’t watching his every move.
    Three weeks where he wasn’t Brock Wellington, millionaire, but Brock Wellington, ranch hand.
    Three weeks…
    *  *  *
    Sunlight heated Brock’s chest and then a loud animalistic bellow sent him flying off the couch and onto the floor.
    He rubbed his head and blinked his eyes as a giant donkey stared at him from the middle of the floor.
    The donkey made another ear-splitting noise and glared.
    It was too early.
    Way too early for a donkey in the middle of the room.
    How the hell had it gotten into the house?
    “Coffee?” Brock asked aloud. “Can’t I at least have coffee first?”
    “Are you talking to a donkey?” came Jane’s silky voice from behind him.
    Brock’s headache gripped his head like a vise. “Well, it seemed the other option was to ignore him and I wasn’t sure if that would just piss the damn thing off more.”
    “Fred’s harmless.” She breezed past him and moved into the kitchen while the donkey continued staring at Brock like he was the one who didn’t belong here.
    “Wait. Did you call him Fred?” Brock stood slowly, eyeing the donkey for any sudden moves.
    “Yup,” came her reply. “All the animals have names. The ranch hand said it makes them feel more like pets. He left a list on the fridge.”
    “Donkeys aren’t pets.”
    Jane’s eyes twinkled. “Oh?”
    “No,” Brock argued.
    Jane pointed. “He seems to think differently.”
    The donkey was directly behind him; the damn thing had followed him into the kitchen.
    “Out!” Brock clapped his hands, which of course made the donkey neigh or whatever the hell they did—louder, until the ear-splitting sound was deafening.
    “You didn’t use his name,” Jane teased.
    Brock glared. “Did you let him in? Is this punishment for being rude last night?”
    She snorted. “The idea does have merit, but no, I didn’t sic Fred on you. I’d like to think I’m more creative than that.”
    Fred nudged Brock to the side then slowly moved into the kitchen and stopped in front of Jane.
    “I think he’s hungry,” Jane whispered, patting Fred on the head.
    A slight twinge of jealousy had Brock ready to drop kick the donkey and push him out of the way. Her hands roamed over the donkey’s head.
    “Lucky bastard,” Brock said under his breath.
    “Hmm?” Jane looked up.
    Brock swore.
    “Can you make coffee already?” he barked at a startled Jane, whose face managed to say everything she didn’t as it crumpled before him.
    “Of course. Anything else, sir?” she asked in a dead voice.
    Shit .
    What the hell was wrong with him?
    A nagging voice in his head blamed her—but she was just the unlucky target and it didn’t help that every time he locked eyes with her he thought of her soft mouth—of trailing kisses down her neck.
    Or just pinning her against the wall.
    But in a sick twist of fate, the only woman who’d managed to spike his interest in years was off limits. At least to someone like him. Someone who didn’t get to choose his own path.
    Repression. That’s what was happening. He’d spent so many years being a yes man that he was finally cracking, saying things he didn’t mean, snapping, and then dreaming about kissing the scowl from her lips.
    She’d probably slap the shit out of him.
    And he’d deserve it.
    “No.” He finally found his voice. “Actually,” he smirked, “Why don’t you make breakfast and coffee while I kick the ass out of the house and make sure he’s the only animal that escaped during the storm?”
    Jane grabbed a skillet and slammed it onto the stovetop. When he cursed she offered a polite smile. “Headache?”
    He glared.
    Smile still in place, she lifted her