Page 5

Then she looks at me. Big green eyes, that soft, sunny voice with just a rasp of nerves in it, and I’m scrapping the whole guest cottage idea. There’s no way in hell I’m letting her stay across the paddock from my house. I want her under my roof. Sleeping in my goddamn bed.

I jerk my chin at her. “I’m putting you in my guest room. It’s got a great view of the ranch.” I reach for the suitcases, taking one in each hand.

Not gonna lie. Nearly snaps my fucking wrists. These things feel like they’re filled with cement.

Her eyes go wide. “You don’t have to⁠—”

I cut her off with a look and a grunt, adjusting my grip. “Are you hiding bodies in here?”

She flushes, grins for real this time. “Stop being a wuss. I packed light this time.”

Fucking hell. If this is packing light, I’d hate to see what she considers heavy. I haul the bags up like they’re nothing, even though my biceps are fucking screaming by the time I pivot toward the house.

She’s hustling to keep up, clutching a stupid dog bed under one arm and wrangling the dog leash with the other. I push through the door, holding it half-open with my boot so she can slide in behind me.

The house smells like coffee and fresh air and whatever the hell Rosa cleans with. Inez trails after me in lazy spirals, taking in the entrance, and my brain starts filling up with flash frames—her hair on my pillow, her skin flushed against clean sheets, her laughter echoing through my bedroom.

Jesus Christ, pull it together.

In the foyer, sun pools across the Spanish tile. I walk her down the main hall, past the library and the kitchen, suitcases thumping against my jeans. Her dog’s nails click a scattershot rhythm on the tile.

The guest room’s at the end of the hall. Good size, corner windows facing the corral and the north pasture. I drop the suitcases next to the dresser with a heavy thud.

Inez breezes in behind me, dropping the dog bed in the far corner. The little French Bulldog makes a beeline for the bed and hops in. The little shit turns in a circle before flopping right in the center like he’s claiming it by birthright.

He studies the doggie bed, then looks at her. Judgy as hell.

She sighs, shakes her head. “He never actually sleeps in the dog bed. He just likes regular beds more.”

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, trying not to grin. “So, why drag the thing up here from California?”

She shrugs, smiling at the dog with pure affection. “Habit, I guess. Feels wrong not to bring it, even if he ignores it.”

There’s something in the way she says it—makes me feel like maybe I get it. We all drag useless shit around. Things we’re used to holding, even when we know we don’t need them.

I nod at the room. “You’ve got a full bathroom through that door. Closet’s empty, and the dresser’s all yours. I’ll give you an hour to settle in, then we’ll head to the arena for your first look at the horses.”

She turns, and those green eyes hit me again, dead-on. “Thank you. Really. I know training a newbie like me wasn’t on your bingo card this week.”

I don’t blink, wondering what the fuck this has to do with bingo. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

Her face flames pink. I see her fighting a smile, and she ducks her head, hair tumbling down.

I step back into the hallway, hand still braced on the wood. “Yell if you need anything. I’ll be out back.”

She laughs again, softer than before. “I’m sure you’ll hear from me soon.”

I close the guest room door behind me.

Then I just stand there, palm flat against the grain, breathing in the scent she left hanging in the hallway—flowers, vanilla, something sweet underneath. The urge to go right back in and find some excuse to stay there is fucking embarrassing.

I clench my jaw until it pops. Jesus. I’m acting like a horny teenager caught outside the girl’s locker room. Get a grip.

I shove my hands in my pockets and walk back toward the kitchen, not looking back. Let her have her hour. I need it more than she does.

Because I’m already counting down the minutes to see her again.

The hour crawls. I fill the time by Googling what “on your bingo card” means. Once my friend the internet makes me feel older than dirt, I stare at the clock, realizing that it only took ten minutes. Fuck me. I spend the rest of the hour pacing the kitchen, then chugging water until my gut sloshes. I keep thinking about her in the next room, unpacking, probably wondering what the fuck she’s gotten herself into.