“Already? I was having so much fun, I lost track of time. Would you like to join me for lunch?”
His gaze travels down my body. “You’re not a vegan, are you?”
“Are you asking me because I’m wearing yoga pants?” My very dusty yoga pants.
Right, because he never gets messy working the range—or whatever it is cowboys do.
“Possibly.”
“You’re safe. I’m not a vegan. I like to eat ice cream and cheese too much to be one. So the invite still stands. I’m not much of a cook”—understatement of the year—“so it won’t be anything fancy.”
“That’s fine by me.”
Now that my breath and heart have had a chance to calm down from the bat attack, I take a quick moment to appreciate what Noah is wearing: The green plaid shirt rolled up at the sleeves, revealing taut muscles. Muscles from a hard day’s work. The worn-in jeans that fit his body just so. The standard cowboy-approved belt buckle. The scuffed cowboy boots. The black cowboy hat.
Yum!
The men back home pay a fortune to obtain a body like his, thanks to the personal trainers to the stars. The only difference between them and Noah is their choice of clothing—with the men in Beverly Hills favoring designer labels.
Surprisingly, what Noah is wearing is kind of a turn-on.
Not that I’m turned-on or anything.
Doing my best to push the image of Noah’s body from my mind, I walk to the ornate wooden chest near the door and make a move to pick it up.
Before I have a chance to touch it, Noah’s strong and capable hands are on it. “I’ve got it,” he says.
“You do realize I can lift that, right?”
“I’m sure you can, but you’re making me lunch, so the least I can do is be helpful. That’s assuming you want this downstairs.”
“I do. Thanks.”
His gaze scans the room. “Anything else you need me to bring downstairs?”
“Eventually I could use some help. But I’ll pay you of course.”
He nods, indicating for me to go first. I turn off the attic light and walk down the steps. My leg aches, but it’s mild enough that it doesn’t bother me too much. I’m used to it when I walk downstairs.
Noah follows me.
“Where would you like this?” he asks once we’re on the main level.
“On the coffee table in the living room would be good. Thank you.”
“It looks like a treasure chest.”
“With floral designs on it? Not very pirate-y. I daresay I won’t find any gold doubloons inside.” Although it would be cool if I did. I used to fantasize as a kid of being a kickass female pirate back in the old days, sailing the Caribbean and doing pirate-y things.
I even tried to convince my father to buy me a fancy sword, so I could start practicing for my future career. Mom signed me up for gymnastics lessons instead.
Noah chuckles. “You might be right. Charlotte didn’t seem the ‘doubloon’ type.”
We enter the living room, and he carefully places the box on the glass coffee table.
“I take it you knew Charlotte?” I ask, leading him into the kitchen.
“I knew your great-aunt since I was eight years old.”
