"Kinsley Rose," he says my full name like I'm in trouble. If I'm not in trouble, then I want to be—just to hear him say it like that again. "You should let a man spoil you now and again."
I laugh. "I'm not even sure how to do that."
He stops beside me, his hand brushing my side as he says low and with a voice full of honey, "I can teach you." My brain forgets what it's for and my body feels like it's floating. Before I can gather my wits about me—which is a phrase I never understood until his thumb brushes my rib before disappearing—he moves past me into the cottage.
"Make yourself at home," I say, closing the door behind us.
He turns to face me in the small entryway, and suddenly the cottage feels impossibly intimate. The golden light from the kitchen lamp casts shadows that emphasize the strong line of his jaw and the breadth of his shoulders. When he smiles, something predatory flickers in his brooding eyes. "This is my home."
Of course. This cottage, this ranch, this entire valley—it's all Halloway land.
I'm renting space in his inheritance.
"What if bull riding takes you on a different path and you don’tend up here?"
Something shifts in his expression—surprise, maybe, that I'd challenge the assumption everyone else seems to make about his future. “Then this place is yours.”
“And if you decide to stay?” I ask.
"Then I guess you'd have to find a new place—or we could be roommates."
I can feel his dare dancing through the gate like a barrel horse—dangerous and powerful. I set the caramel apple on the kitchen counter with hands that are steadier than they have any right to be, hyperaware of his gaze following my every movement. "Lucky for me, I don't plan on being here that long."
"Lucky," he repeats, but there's something in his tone that suggests he finds nothing lucky about it at all.
When I turn to face him, he's closer than he was a moment ago—not crowding, exactly, but near enough that I catch the faint scent of his cologne. Near enough that if I took one step forward, I could find out if he tastes as good as he looks.
The thought sends panic racing through my veins, followed immediately by a rush of want so strong it makes my knees unsteady. This is exactly what I was afraid of—this pull, this heat, this dangerous desire to let someone in, making me lose control.
My mom warned me about men like him.
"So," I say, turning toward the refrigerator. "I've got some good news and some bad news."
When I glance back, his smile is pure trouble. "Let's hear it."
Dang that smile.
"The bad news is I don't really cook." I shrug as I bite mylip. Since I spent most of the afternoon nursing a headache and icing to keep the swelling down, I wouldn't have had enough time to figure it out. "But Brook left me a lasagna, and I can reheat with the best of them." I pull it out and set it on the counter. It's already been cooked and the instructions for reheating are written on the foil. I turn on the oven.
"Fine by me." Wyatt strides over to the fridge seemingly unaffected by my confession that I’m not a domestic goddess. He opens the door and rummages through the contents. "Do you want a salad?" he asks as he tosses lettuce and other veggies onto the counter.
I stare at him. No bull rider in the history of ever wants to eat a salad. Is he … I mean … Is he offering to chop a cucumber for me? “Yeah,” I reply.
He washes his hands and gets to work.
I consider him. He’s… well he’s not what I expected him to be.
"I'm sure we can figure out dessert…together." He looks me over like he’s ready to sample the menu. "Nice dress by the way."
Or he’s exactly what I thought he was—a cowboy Casanova.
I bristle. “There’s no together-ingtonight. This is just payback. Besides, you’re pretty-well taken.”
“Taken? Sweetheart,” he reaches for the carrots, “there is no other woman.”
I pull upthepost on my phone and flip it around. “Doesn’t look that way.” My heart slams against my chest. For some stupid reason, tears prick the back of my eyes. I can’t believe I’m getting emotional. I’m a master at keepingmy cool during honest and raw conversations but hearing from him that he’s with this girl is going to sting.
He scowls. “Trust me—that is not what it looks like.”