Because he does smell good—when he’s not soaked in alcohol.
“Oh my god! He smells like leather, doesn’t he? Leather and sweat, with a slight hint of cow shit. It’s masculine as fuck, huh?”
“Cow shit?”
“Of course. All cowboys smell like cow shit. They try to cover it up and shower it off, but it’s in their pores and DNA. The combo—” She kisses her fingers. “Chef's kiss.”
“He’s not a cowboy,” I say automatically. At least, I don’t think he is. “And he smelled like my coffee.”
Actually, Kade smelled fresh, like rain and sunshine, mixed with something spicy.
“Does he live in the country?” I nod as she lifts a finger, counting. “Drive a truck?” I groan, but nod again. Another finger. “Kind of covered in dirt, even though he’s clean?”
I shrug, but she ignores me, flicking up a third digit.
“Here’s the big one.”
“Can’t wait,” I mutter.
“Does he, or does he not, unironically wear cowboy boots with faded jeans that hug his thick thighs and juicy ass?”
My mind zeroes in on the memory of Kade standing in the middle of the sidewalk, sunshine wrapped around his dark, shoulder-length hair—hair that curled in random places and flipped in others, tucked beneath a worn black baseball cap.
Without the shadows of his porch, his beard—full but neatly trimmed—caught the light just right, revealing silver threads woven through the dark. I never thought gray hair would do it for me. But damn if I didn’t nearly drool right there on the spot.
His fitted white T-shirt was covered in a layer of seven-dollar coffee, but that didn’t take away from the way it hugged his barrel chest and biceps.
And the jeans…fuck, yes.
Jeans like that tell a story. The kind that says he knows exactly how to be on his knees.
How to take his time.
How to look up at a woman with those storm-gray eyes and ruin her with nothing more than his mouth, fingers, and a low, gravel-rough “tell me what you need, darlin’.”
And God help me, I’d let him.
“Is Georgia Walker present, or has she descended into cowboy-shaped-dick-land?”
“What?” I drop the flour I’d been hugging like a safety blanket, grab my phone, and head to the kitchen. “Did you say something?”
“His jeans…” she drawls, brows high.
“Oh, I, uh—” I clear my throat and barely resist squeezing my thighs together.Am I seriously turned on right now?“You know what? I don’t remember.”
Abby cackles. “You so do. You remember everything. You have a brain like a steel trap and a heart like a puddle. In fact, your heart lives in your heavily-ignored, needy vagina, and now you’re going to pine after him while pretending you hate his guts.”
“I’m not allowed to hate his guts, but I really do,” I mutter, stacking mugs in the cabinet while actively forcing myself to hate Kade’s guts.
I do. I do. I do.
I shift to the next box, this one markedpantry, and grimace. Unlike my previous apartment, this place lacks storage. The cabinets are small, and I’ve already filled most of them with dishes, cookware, and baking stuff.
“You're still unpacking food?” Abby asks, thankfully changing the subject.
I sigh and nod.
“Dude, did you even bring any clothes or toiletries?” She gasps, pressing a hand to her chest. “Oh, fucking hell, did you bring your sex toys? You’re gonna need them based on your obsession with the cowboy, so I really hope you did.”
