“Always.” Fingers brush mine, warm and sure. Her gaze narrows. “Why do you look guilty?”
Guilty? Me? Only plotting the most over-the-top river surprise since Moses.
“I don’t look guilty. I look…” I lift my cup. “Caffeinated.”
She arches a brow. “Uh-huh. Must be pumped for the rodeo tomorrow.”
Right—the small, intimate, totally-not-televised rodeo with seven figure prize money and every sponsor in the tristatearea. My heart thuds hard enough to slosh the coffee. “It’s… something.”
“About that.” She leans against the counter, looking uncertain. “Are you sure you want me there? I don't want to distract you.”
Distract me? She’s a five-alarm fire in a fireworks factory—one flicker of her grin and every fuse in my head sparks at once.
I steady my coffee mug like it’s a composure prop.
“Want you front row.” I say with a steady smile.
“Besides, it's just a local exhibition.” I swallow, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue. Tomorrow is the Super Series of annual rodeo events—one of the biggest events of the season, sponsors in attendance and a decent seven figure payout for qualifiers…and yet somehow I feel more nervous about Mia’s reaction to seeing me ride, but I don't tell her that. Don't want her to feel pressured or obligated to attend tomorrow.
“If you're sure...” She smiles, and my heart does that stupid flip it's been doing since I met her.
I nod. Crisis dodge. I pivot to breakfast. “Sausage?”
Stop thinking about sausage, Taylor.
I point to the pan with half cooked sausages.
“I might go for a swim first, if that's okay? Clear my head before I tackle my article.”
“Great idea,” I say, perhaps too enthusiastically. “The river's perfect this time of morning.”
She narrows her eyes playfully. “What are you up to, Taylor?”
“Nothing.” I raise my hands in mock surrender. “Can't a guy be supportive of his... erm… you?”
F-Fuck. Great. Nobel Prize for Eloquence incoming. Real smooth there Taylor.
The stumble doesn't go unnoticed.
She steps closer, amusement sparking in her eyes. “Supportivewhat, exactly?”
My pulse spikes. Titles scramble in my brain like loose cattle:
Friend? Insulting.
Boyfriend? Premature.
Lifelong worshipper of your thighs? Maybe later.
I step closer, backing her against the counter. Her breath hitches and I revel in her way her pupils dilate. “My very talented, incredibly sexy houseguest who I can't stop thinking about.”
Her gaze darkens, tension snapping tight between us—electric, edge-of-a-storm stuff, as I bracket her body with my arms, caging her in.
“That's quite a title.” She says with a ragged breath.
“It's a work in progress,” I murmur, as I drop a kiss to the warm skin beneath her ear; she exhales like I’ve short-circuited her.Mission accomplished.“I'm open to suggestions.”
She sighs, tilting her head to give me better access. “I'll think about it while I swim.”
