CHAPTER THREE
INDIGO
Ford took my pants. He took my f*****g pants!
I stared out the open door and into the rain.
“That asshole,” I swore.
I technically could have stayed in the greenhouse until the weather let up then hiked back to my truck bare-legged and panty-assed, but I wasn’t dumb. Ford knew that. The fucker.
I had no choice but to tuck my feet into my soggy hiking boots—which he’d so generously left—and trudged through the rain to the house. In just my t-shirt. Ford’s property was huge, and it took a few minutes to cut across it. I took the time to mutter and swear like I’d been the one in the Navy. By the time I stomped through the back screen door, I was fuming and soaked.
“Listen, you asshole, I—”
A man held up his hands at my verbal attack, but it wasn’t Ford.
I stopped
