He groans, low and raw, like he’s been holding something back for far too long. His thumb strokes over my inner thigh now, teasing, almost reverent. “Thought so.”
He chuckles, deep and rough, like gravel soaked in bourbon. And before I can decide if I’m going to slap him or climb him like a tree, an alarm rings on his phone.
He glances at the screen and sighs, dropping his head.
“Shit.” A pained look crossing his face. “I have to meet a sponsor in town in 30 minutes then I’m meeting Connor in Wellington, I’ll be out for most of today” his eyes meeting mine and the look on his face almost forlorn.
“Gimme a sec.” He sets the ice in place with practiced ease and rises, but not before brushing my knee with his knuckles. A touch that lingers too long to be innocent.
“I’ll be back,” he says, already moving down the hall, but then he pauses, turns, and scans the room like he’s about to leave me for a damn year.
In less than five minutes, he’s back, changed in fresh wranglers with a crisp white button-down shirt and a baseball cap, his cologne drifting through the air, holding a bottle of water, a can of ginger ale, a granola bar, a pack of sour candies, one of his button-up white shirts, the TV remote, and my laptop.
“Snacks. Screens. Hydration. I’d fluff your pillows but I’m not wearin’ a maid uniform.” he says with a smirk.
I stare at the pile of stuff he puts down beside me.
He tilts his head, eyes glinting with that mischievous cowboy heat that always spells trouble. “Don’t say I never spoil you.” He shoots me a wink with a devilish grin.
“Getting soft on me, Taylor?” I tease, hiding the way my chest aches under the smile.
He shrugs touching his chest. “Only where it counts.” He mutters, then turns for the door.
And just like that, he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click, and I’m left with melting ice, an electric thigh, and the scent of him still lingering in the air.
I shift on the couch, carefully adjusting the towel-wrapped ice against my calf. The sting has dulled to a steady ache, but it's nothing compared to the restlessness writhing just under my skin. I grab the TV remote—because what the hell else am I gonna do?
I’m flicking through a few channels before settling on one of those shows where grumpy British guys scream at each other over undercooked risotto. It’s chaos. Distracting. Perfect.
Except not really. Because five minutes in, I’m not watching the screen—I’m staring at the door like it’s about to deliver me a cowboy with a fresh sin to whisper in my ear.
Ugh! Pathetic.
To save what’s left of my dignity, I grab my laptop and open the doc I’ve been ignoring: an outline for the article Bri's breathing down my neck about. “Ten Things City Girls Should Know About Cowboys.” Number one? They smell like sex and woodsmoke and ruin you for all other men.
I type it. Then delete it.
Then type it again.
I shift again, trying to focus, but the cushion still smells like him. Leather and laundry soap and something deliciously masculine. I scowl. I amnotone of those girls who loses all higher brain function because a man carried her like a damsel in distress.
...Except maybe I am, because I just popped the last sour candy into my mouth without realizing I’d eaten the whole bag.
My water’s already half-gone. The ginger ale too. Granola bar? Crumbs. Sliding on his button-up shirt and loving the fact that it’s a fresh shirt, but it smells like him.
I glance toward the kitchen. I could hobble, sure. Or—wait for it—I could just wait until Grant comes back and play the injured card again. Not that I care when he’s coming back. Nope. Not at all.
Totally not watching the door again.
I pull up another tab and start reviewing the notes for a potential pitch piece Bri wanted: “Under the Hat: A City Girl's Guide to Decoding Cowboy Speak.” I type a few bullet points, mostly sarcastic, mostly fueled by the smirk on Grant’s face when he said“I haven’t even started yet.”
I hear Grant’s truck coming up the drive—loud, obvious, and about as subtle as the man himself. Of course he’d announce his return like a damn parade the second I let my guard down.
I don’t even look. Won’t give it that satisfaction. I keep my eyes locked on the TV like the last three minutes of this cooking competition are suddenly life or death.
But my heart? That traitor surges like it just got caught skinny-dipping in expectation.
Nope. Not waiting for him. Not thinking about how his shirt clung to him after the river, how his dark brown eyes looked at me like I was something worth worshipping and ruining in the same damn breath. Not. Thinking. About. That.
