ME:
Hi. What’s the update?
My phone lights up with his incoming call, and I exhale hard, puffing my cheeks. I don’t have to answer it. I can reply that I’m working. That I’m busy having a big, full, and amazing life, one I am completely in love with, thank you very much.
Get over yourself already. This call is about Colton.
“Hi, Rowdy.”
“Hey, Keo.” The way he says my name in that unhurried, low tone makes my spine tingle. Damn him. “Any chance I could stop by sometime today? Colton wrote us a letter. I…thought you’d like to see it. We could talk about ways to support him.”
I pick at a paint blob stuck to my knuckle, thinking this through. “How about around lunchtime?”
“Can I bring us something to share?”
My mouth opens, but the words skitter to a halt on my tongue. Do I have this right? He’s offering to…what…collaborate? Or is this something more? “Don’t bother—” I wince at my snooty tone. That’s the last thing I want. “I mean, I have something already made, but you could bring bread to go with it?”
“Sounds great.” Warmth fills his tone. “Noon okay?”
My tummy gives an unhelpful flutter. “Yeah, see you then.” We say goodbye and I check the time. It’s just after ten. I had a lazy morning and haven’t showered yet. I’m also not wearing a bra.
I tell myself that washing my hair and shaving my legs for a lunch meetupwith Rowdy Whittaker doesn’t count asfretting. Even the lunch I’m expanding to include a guest couldn’t be called that. The soup’s already made, thanks to Lily coaching me through it yesterday.
I tell myself that also putting on lacy skivvies doesn’t count because I love how they make me feel.
When Rowdy comes to the door at two minutes to noon, dressed in a black wool sweater and dark green uniform pants with that cowboy hat that seems to have a direct line of communication to my ovaries, I remind myself that this is most likely just a friendly and very casual lunch date and nothing more. And maybe that’s exactly where it needs to stay, because if he’s hung up on the idea that I’m going to be some kind of clingy time suck on his busy life, that’s a hard pass.
His expression softens when he takes me in. “Hi.”
I chose my favorite cowgirl snap shirt and pulled some of my curly hair off my face.Minimalfretting.
“Come in.” I pull the door open so he can step across the threshold.
“Hope you like peasant bread.” He hands me the loaf tucked under his arm. Our fingertips brush, and for an instant, our eyes meet.
Am I imagining the energy firing between us?
“Perfect,” I manage.
He slips off his boots and hangs his hat on my coat rack, giving me a moment to both check out his fine backside in those uniform pants and reclaim my sanity with a slow inhale.
“Smells great in here,” he says as we walk toward the kitchen.
“We’re having French onion soup. It’s Lily’s recipe.”
“Wow, I’m honored.”
I shoot him a glance, but his eyes shine with sincerity.
The read I’m getting from him today feels different. But I was wrong last time, so…
“Can I help with anything?” he asks.
“Would you be willing to build a fire?” I’m veering off script, but I need a minute to get settle the sudden flutters tickling my belly.
“Sure thing.” He heads for the hearth, dropping to one knee and sorting through my wood supply.
Not that I’d expect any less from this mountain cowboy, but I’m beginning to think there’s no challenge he can’t tackle. And damn if a capable man isn’t a temptation all on its own.