Page 5 of Ride Me Cowboy
Beau lets out a low whistle. “Fancy.”
I force a smile, like it’s a joke and I’m in on it, but the truth is, my old lifewasfancy. Upper-east-side-penthouse-apartment fancy. On-the-board-of-multiple-charities fancy. A wardrobe-full-of-couture fancy.
I shudder, because that might all sound really nice but let me tell you, it came at way too high a price.
“Why don’t I show you your office,” Cole offers, his voice less growl now, more gentle. But there’s still a rawness to it that makes my pulse tremble.
I nod, curling my hands around my coffee, reluctant to relinquish it.
“You can bring it with you,” he says, like he’s read my mind. “Reagan pretty much always has a cup at the desk. Hell, she usually takes the whole damn pot, which, to be frank, we don’t love.”
My smile feels less forced now. “Got it. No stealing the coffee pot.”
He nods, rather than smiles, and even though there’s a brusqueness to him, a cool distance, I’m way more comfortable with that than Beau’s over the top friendliness.
“You can take the coffee pot, Manhattan. We can always come find it.”
I throw Beau a wave as we walk out of the kitchen, into a long, wide hallway with more terracotta tiles on the floor and cream-colored walls. The photos that adorned the entrance way are conspicuously absent here, and I find myself wondering about that. It’s a great canvas, an enormous blank space that would look so nice with a splash of color, some wallpaper and prints.It’s naturally bright, though, courtesy of the sky light, and there’s an overall warmth to the house. We pass a large family room with well-worn brown leather sofas, a low coffee table, big TV and a huge bay window that looks out onto the rose garden, and then approach a darkly wood-paneled room lined with books. There’s another window in here overlooking the same roses, and a small desk is placed right there. A larger desk sits on the wall at a right angle.
“This is the office,” he says, hands in his pockets as he nods toward the space. He’s left his hat in the kitchen, but it doesn’t matter. I think I’ll always see Cole as I did when he first got out of his pickup and swaggered toward me, like a cowboy fantasy brought to life.
Suddenly my mouth is dry as I remember what it was like to shake his hand, and I take a step into the office just to escape the overwhelming maleness of him.
Only, this room is sheer ‘guy’. From the Arizona Cardinals calendar on the wall to the selection of ranching magazines to the heavy, dark wood, I can feel Cole’s presence in here as though he’d breathed himself all over the walls.
I move to the smaller desk, guessing—correctly—that it will be mine. Which means…
“As in, we’ll share an office?” I ask, wishing my voice would come out a little less tentatively.
“I’m mostly in here at night,” he says with a nod. “So don’t be worrying about me getting in your way.”
“I wasn’t,” I say, honestly. “I just…” the words trail off, as I turn to look at the rose garden. How do I tell him I came here because I needed something to do, something to occupy me, whilstsimultaneously being left completely alone to process everything that’s happened over the last few years, and particularly the last few months?
If I’m honest, I came here hoping to heal, and that’s something I intend to achieve all on my own.
“Thank you,” I finish, lamely, glancing across at him to find his eyes resting on me in that ‘sees too much’ way of his.
“Reagan’s left you some notes in the top drawer.”
I go to reach for them, but his voice stills my hand.
“Why don’t you leave it for now? You’re still getting settled in. I’ll show you your room.”
At his words, which my past makes me perceive as a reprimand, I startle a little but cover it, I think.
“Sure,” I say, over-bright, compensating. “Lead the way, boss.”
His lips twist in something like a smile. “Cole will do just fine.”
It’s an interesting comment, as though he doesn’t like being reminded he’s in charge. Curiosity fires inside of me before I can control it; before I can remind myself that this is temporary, and so are these people. I don’t care about them, or this ranch. This is a job, pure and simple.
No, it’s an escape hatch. I’m going to hole myself away here for just as long as I can, because one thing’s for sure: I was never going to get the space I needed to recover in Manhattan. Not with Christopher’s family breathing down my neck, checking up on me all the time, doing their darn best to support me.
The house is larger than I assumed from outside. I realize there are two wings, built around a central courtyard that’s got large,bluestone pavers with grass in between, and a huge pine tree right at the center. I’d seen the top of it from outside but had presumed it was behind the house, not at its core.
“Yeah, our great, great, great grandpa built the house. The tree was big, even then,” he says, slowing his pace a little to eye it off.
“Why build around it, rather than choose another site?”
