Page 5 of Owning Emma

“No.” I glared at him with all the stubbornness I could muster, determined to win this battle.

“Cardigan,” he said the word drawn out, yet utterly calm, like I wasn’t even bothering him one bit. “Hand over the bags.”

“You might as well turn around and start walking downstairs because the only way you’re getting these bags is if you pry them from my hands. I should warn you, my grip is strong.”

I watched his Adam’s apple bob, the movement slow and mesmerizing. “You sure?” he asked me one last time, and I knew I had won. I knew he was ready to back down and let me have my way. Anything to avoid a scene, especially in front of my father.

“Positive,” I replied, trying to keep the smile of success off my face.

“If you’re sure,” he said, amusement littering his voice. I nodded, convinced these big, bad men weren’t nearly as brutal as the stories made them out to be. But then, he bent his giant frame over, wrapped his arm around my thighs, and before I had time to object, I felt my body move through the air moments before the pressure of his hard shoulder jammed into my stomach. The air rushed out of me; my breath stolen unexpectedly.

We were already in motion by the time I could breathe again. Bags still clutched in my hands, I tried pushing off him, using his back as leverage, but his arms were like iron over the back of my thighs, and despite using all my strength, he didn’t leave me any wiggle room. I was still struggling when I felt his hand come down on my butt, delivering a sharp sting.

I gasped, halting in my struggle. His shoulders jiggled under me in silent laugher. “Are you laughing at me?” I gasped.

“You’re making it hard not to.” His statement only infuriated me more.

“Well, if you put me down and stopped acting like a thug, we wouldn’t have this issue,” I huffed.

His shoulders shook again. “If you stopped arguing, gave me your damn bag as I asked, and stopped being so stubborn, I wouldn’t be carrying you to the truck, but I can’t promise I wouldn’t have smacked your ass.”

I was stunned into complete silence. Never had I been manhandled in this fashion, with so much disrespect. I’d never had my butt smacked, or had any man feeling it was appropriate to lay even a finger on my thigh. My whole body jolted with each step he took as he descended the stairs. At the bottom, he opened the door, leading us into the sunlight. I squinted my eyes at the harsh light, then kept them closed after I got a glimpse of his behind in a pair of tight molded jeans.

He took a few more steps before my whole body lurched forward, placing me on my feet. When I opened my eyes, his hand was out expectantly. “What?”

“Your bags.” I tried not to roll my eyes as I handed them over, him taking both of them in one hand like they weighed nothing. I shouldn’t have been surprised; he did just carry my weight plus the weight of my bags like I was only a sack of feathers. He didn’t even break a sweat. He walked away from me before turning to me and pointing his finger. “Do not move.”

Like I would move. Where? I had his truck to my back, my father leaning against the door in front of me, and absolutely no desire to work up a sweat when I was sure he could catch me without even getting out of breath. His legs were so long that it would probably take five of my steps just to match one of his.

He was back in what seemed like seconds. He yanked open the door, grabbed my hips, and lifted me to put me on the seat. He gave me a smile, which turned his hard edges into devastatingly handsome angles before he slammed the door, leaving me in the truck’s cab alone. I watched him approach my father; the closer he got, the angrier my father’s expression became. It was hard to feel sympathy for him. In fact, the angrier he got at whatever Shaw had said, the more satisfaction I felt.

When the argument ended, both men looked heated. Shaw stomped toward the truck, his back straight, rage etched into his features. I wish I heard what had got them both so worked up. He reached for the driver’s side door, pulling it open and getting in the truck with little effort. Of course, it took him no effort; he had at least a foot and a half on me. He shut the door with more aggression than necessary, buckled his seatbelt, and placed his hands on the steering wheel, taking in a couple of solid gulps of air.

When he seemed to have steadied himself, he turned to me, offering me one of those alluring smiles. “You ready? Buckle up, Cardigan. I drive like I live my life, making my own rules.”

Ready? There was no way I would ever be ready. But here I was, and despite how angry I was at my father for getting me into this, I loved him. I would do anything to protect him. Even if that meant getting thrown into the lion’s den with Shaw and Roman and a bunch of pigs I’d never met but already hated. So instead of saying the millions of things I wanted to say, arguing words I knew would only fall on deaf ears, I reached over, pulling the belt and clicking it in place.