Page 10 of Ride Me Cowboy
“This smells so dang good,” he mutters, reaching for a fork and taking a big scoop then and there. I watch, strangely invested in the outcome, and not just because I sweated on Christopher’s reactions every night. This is different. I used to want Christopher to like the dinners I’d cooked because I was afraid of getting hurt. I want Cole to like it just because I want him to.
“Man,” he groans, as he swallows that first mouthful. “Holy crap, Beth. This is just about the best mac and cheese I’ve ever had.”
Warmth floods my body—a warmth I quickly remind myself to ice out, because trusting anyone,likinganyone, is absolutely not on my radar.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’m glad you like it.” I take a step back, bowl in one hand and beer in the other. “I’ll see you later.”
He frowns. “Where’re you going?”
I glance over my shoulder. “I’m going to work while I eat.”
“Come on, Beth. You don’t have to get right into it.”
“I like to work,” I explain, and God knows that’s true. I haven’t had a job of my own for three and half long years. Does Cole have any idea how good it feels to have this job? It might not seem like much—I know I’m overqualified for it. To me, though, it’s everything.
“Ten minutes,” he says. “Tell me a bit about yourself.”
I bite into my lip and shake my head. “Another time,” I say, backing toward the door. “I’ll come back and clean up in a bit,” I say, glancing at the pot.
“No way. I’ve got this.” He scoops another huge mouthful. When he’s finished chewing, he says, softly, “It’s the least I can do to thank you.”
I wrinkle my nose. “It’s just mac and cheese.”
“This is not ‘just’ anything,” he corrects.
Warmth threatens to overtake everything, and my smile, when I look at him, is genuine, albeit short lived. “Thanks,” I say, leaving the room and expelling a deep, shaky breath.
Focus, girl. Keep your head down and focus. No cowboy, no matter how sexy and kind of sweet, is going to derail you. You’re here to recover, and that’s not about Cole Donovan, or anyone else.
Chapter Four
Beth
IDO A PRETTY GOOD job of avoiding Cole Donovan for the first four days on the job. With his forewarning that he works most nights, I decide to hit the desk early, going through wages first, then bills, before spreadsheeting it all.
It’s easy work, but at the same time, it’s a challenge, because despite how Reagan might have seemed on the phone, a heap of the records I thought I’d find are missing, so to some extent, I’m operating on guess work alone.
I cut the checks though, keeping track of everything I’m doing in the ledger Reagan left for me.
If it’s a bit of an old-fashioned way to work, I don’t question it. Out here, this is apparently just how things are done.
I make sandwiches—quick and easy—when no one’s in the kitchen, and eat either at my desk or in my bedroom. But on the fourth day, the sun breaks over the mountains in the distanceand the sky splits apart in a glorious display of purples and oranges, so I wake early and feel an almost animalistic yearning to throw off the covers and lose myself out into the wild. To bask in the morning light and feel it wash over me.
I haven’t consciously decided not to explore the ranch, but I suppose when I arrived here I did plan on squirrelling away as much as possible, licking my wounds and all that.
Maybe there’s something in the air out here though, because it doesn’t take long before my whole body is energized by a heady need to goout.I dress quickly, in jeans and a tee, and pull on a pair of brightly colored Docs. Yet another act of rebellion. Christopher would haveneverlet me wear them out of the house. He hated it when I wore anything other than designer heels, at least an inch high, preferably teamed with a short skirt.
I drag my hair into a low, loose bun and make for the French doors that lead to my courtyard. I’ve subconsciously registered, at some point, that they’re a great way to get out of the house without having to talk to anyone. Obviously, developing escape plans is a part and parcel of who I’ve become. So too, avoiding chit chat.
Escaping wasn’t possible, in my old life. Christopher made sure of it. While he worked long days, he locked the apartment from the outside. I couldn’t escape, not even if there was a fire. I think he liked holding that power over me, knowing the fear it put in my gut. And for good measure, the entrance foyer had three cameras, catching every angle. I was trapped in my luxurious penthouse, able to leave only if he knew of the plans, and his driver took me.
That probably explains why a jubilant laugh bubbles out of me as I push the doors open and step into the early morning light,lifting my arms over my head as if I can run my fingertips across the sun’s rays. Warmth envelops me and my smile stretches.
It is quiet, except for the faraway songs of morning birds. The light breeze carries their voices to me, and I step further out, across the pavers of the courtyard, toward the ancient tree at first, with its huge trunk. I’ve been looking at the thing for days; now I run my fingers over the gnarled trunk, feeling the bark and wishing it didn’t remind me, at first, of the rough callouses on Cole Donovan’s hands, that day we met.
I turn my back on the tree, fidgeting with my hand to get rid of the feeling and the memory, and stride out of the courtyard. It’s open at the back of the ranch house—two wings form an open ‘u’. Behind it, there’s a graveled area, and then a drop off, down a steep escarpment, toward the creek. Over the sound of distant birds, I hear burbling, and when I reach the edge of the gravel, I see it. Water, dark and glistening, flows quickly, over shallow rocks, carving a path through the land that reminds me of a snake’s belly.
The metaphor surprises me. It’s not the kind of thing I’ve had a lot of experience with—snakes—yet I can practically see it in the shape and writhing of the water.
