“City girl doesn’t make you invincible.” I run a hand over my forehead.
“And why’s that?” She props her hands on her hips, narrowing her eyes. Sparks fly. Too damn sexy for a man who deals in potatoes and rutabagas, not hearts.
“You think because you’re big, because you’ve been in the military—” She exhales hard, bursting at the seams. Her mouth opens, and I wait. Instead, she swallows the thought. “That you can control women. Tell us what to do?—”
The way she spitsmilitaryhas me leaning back. That word is a wound for her. Father, lover, brother? Someone in uniform hurt her.
“Nope. More like a concerned citizen who wants to see his interviewer alive tomorrow.” I remove my hat, rake a hand through my hair. “Besides, you’ll cut out driving if you stay here instead of in town.”
She bites her bottom lip, and I’m burning alive. Damn, what I’d give for a taste. But the way she looks at me? I’m the enemy.
She shrugs. “This is small-town U.S.A. You mean to tell me there’s crime in podunk Forest Grove?”
“Every town’s got a spot for the dregs. Forest Grove Inn is that place. A halfway house for vagrants, druggies, prisoners fresh out of the state pen.”
“The state pen?” Her voice tightens.
“Few hundred miles off, but a straight shot hitchhiking?—”
“But isn’t hitchhiking illegal? I saw signs everywhere?—”
I chuckle. “Didn’t end up in prison by following the law.”
Her frown lingers.
“You can stay in my cabin,” I offer. “Until you get everything sorted.”
She shakes her head, chin trembling. What story hides in that subtle gesture?
“No. I can’t drag you—or the ranch—into my troubles. I should’ve planned better.”
“I’ll stay in the bunkhouse with the hands. You’ll have the place to yourself. Spare, minimally furnished, like most bachelor pads. But safe, warm, cozy.”
Her cheeks pinken.
“And you’ll be in farm-to-table heaven. How often do you get invited to stay at a veteran-owned”—she flinches at the word—“horse sanctuary, organic farm, and permaculture haven?”
She opens her mouth. Nothing comes out.
“It’ll give us time for private tours,” I push on. “Winemaking, composting, harvesting, animal husbandry. More time to enjoy fork-to-farm meals, too.”
Why do I sound like a used car salesman?
“But I wouldn’t want to trouble you,” she whispers, eyes dropping. Someone’s accused her of that before.
“You could never be trouble.” Too quick, too raw. Really, I’m imagining all the trouble my hands could get into tracing her soft lines. “And since the nearest decent hotel’s an hour away, this is the practical choice.”
“I don’t know.” Her tone darkens.
“If I were older, the way you imagined me, would this decision be so hard?”
She gives me a look, sly as a cat with a stomach full of canary. Warmth floods my chest, messy and impossible.
“If I say ‘yes,’ will you stop it with the trick questions?”
I laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”
But she doesn’t return the gesture. Instead, she regards me apprehensively, her cheeks flushed, a torrent swirling in her eyes.
