Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 114263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
The next morning, I wake up sore, but not as sore as I thought I’d be. I worried I’d be pretty close to dead when my alarm went off at three thirty, even though Cash told me to take the day off. I don’t bound out of bed, but I’m able to walk to the bathroom without wanting to die.
My pulse leaps. Good. That means I get to do my cowgirl thing again today. Which means I get to see Cash. And all the other cowboys. Because I like cowboys in general, not one cowboy specifically.
At least that’s what I tell myself as I brush my teeth and braid my hair.
But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t downright giddy as I open my bedroom door at five till four. Will Cash want another omelet?
Will he do that obscenely sexy thing where he opens another bottle of hot sauce for me?
I draw up short when I see several shopping bags on the floor in the hall outside my door. Leaning down to open one, I see that they’re filled with bags of Epsom salt.
Eucalyptus scented.
There’s no note, but I don’t need one.
Barely able to breathe, I grab a bag and scurry to the kitchen. Cash is at the coffeepot, pouring coffee into a pair of mugs. He tops each one off with milk and sugar and then lifts them, turning.
He grins when he sees me.
“What’s this?” I hold up the Epsom salts.
Cash casually sips his coffee, like he didn’t just perform a gesture that’s not exactly grand, but not exactly small, either. Because I’m not sure I’ve ever received such a thoughtful gift. Sure, I’ve gotten elaborate gifts. Ridiculous ones. But gifts that are thoughtful and sweet, given out of kindness, not obligation?
Never.
“You need to be in that tub every night, Mollie.”
“Your tub?”
His grin twitches. “If you want.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Thank you is a good start.”
I only set down the bag when Cash holds out a mug of coffee to me. “Thank you. I really mean that.” Crossing the kitchen, I take the mug. “And thank you for this too.”
Am I imagining it, or did Cash intentionally brush his fingers against mine? Electricity zips up my arm, awareness blooming inside my skin.
“The salt makes a difference, doesn’t it?” Cash’s eyes are locked on mine. “You seem to be moving around pretty well this morning.”
He noticed how I’m moving?
Why does that make me blush? And smile? And want to tackle him?
Where the hell is Patsy? Oh, right. She has weekends off.
“You were right,” I manage. “It helps.”
“Bet it kills you to say those words.”
I hold up my fingers, pinching them together. “Only a little.”
He watches me sip my coffee. I watch him sip his. Fire streaks through me at the satisfied rumble that sounds inside his chest.
“Do you work every weekend?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I actually have them off, but I work anyway.”
“Of course you do.”
His lips twitch as his eyes lock on mine over the rim of his coffee mug. “Don’t know what I love more. My morning coffee or my afternoon beer.”
“Depends on who you’re having it with, I think.”
His hair is still wet from the shower. The smell of his soap is intoxicating.
I am this close to jumping the man’s bones.
Especially when he says, “Then I think I like my coffee more.”
Don’t flirt back.
Do. Not. Flirt.
“Or your evening Shiner Bocks at The Rattler,” I say.
That rumble of laughter. That smile. That happy, playful gleam in his blue eyes. “I like that too.”
Oh, Lord, am I falling for this guy?
That would be a disaster—a risk I can’t take. Especially now that I’m getting involved in the ranch’s day-to-day operations.
Especially now that I’m starting to like the place.
I’ve learned Lucky Ranch is what it is because of Cash. I lose him, there’s a very good chance I lose my family’s legacy. I want to do Dad proud.
Which means I absolutely cannot do Cash.
Even if he is kind. Thoughtful. And so hot it hurts sometimes.
Maybe I just need to get laid. Surely, this is just sexual frustration rearing its ugly head? I bet some good sex with someone other than Cash will cure me of any inconvenient attraction I may feel for my foreman.
But who the hell do I sleep with in Hartsville? I can’t pick up any of the other cowboys or ranch hands. I don’t have the time—or the energy—to hang at The Rattler by myself and meet people there. Could I possibly shoot back to Dallas next weekend? Then again, Goody and I haven’t discussed my ability to come and go from the ranch like that.
The answer comes the next morning, on Monday.
Or, really, later that night. Guess Palmer was having Sunday Funday and stayed out late, because he sent a text at eleven forty-five p.m.