Page 55 of A Cowboy in the Streets

What would things have been like for us if she had lived? We would have co-parented Ben. I would have been forced to make peace with the idea of her and Deacon, for Ben’s sake. Maybe I would have gotten over myself and found someone to share my life with. I saw play out like a moving in my mind’s eye, the parallel life. But it wasn’t some faceless woman I imagined myself with.

It was James.

Chapter 23

James

Nothing about this was a good idea.

Sleeping with my boss was stupid. Deciding to sneak around so we could do it again was even stupider. But that didn’t stop me from climbing in Adam’s truck Tuesday afternoon on the pretense of having errands in town.

We never made it to town.

Instead, we parked in one of those Colorado fields that seemed to stretch forever. Afternoon clouds rolled in as we fumbled with each other’s clothing, hot and desperate, taking off as little as possible to get the job done. It had been barely forty-eight hours since the last time we had touched each other like this, and still, when he finally slid inside me, the relief was so intense I nearly orgasmed on the spot. Hail pelted the truck, drowning out our sounds.

I collapsed against his chest, trying to catch my breath, while we waited out the storm. These things tended to pass quickly. Adam stroked his fingers through my hair while we cuddled against each other, my legs straddling his lap.

“Ben and I looked through the photos of his mom,” he said.

I stopped breathing and craned my neck to look at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He was quiet, his fingers still sifting through my hair. I didn’t push, giving him space to consider his words.

“It didn’t feel like I thought it would,” he said finally. “I’m not mad anymore. I’m sad. Sad that Ben doesn’t have a mom around. Sad that Emily missed out on his life. But it doesn’t feel like it used to.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask whether he was sad for himself, too—sad because he missed the woman he loved. Pride choked the question down. Of all the stupid things I was doing, falling for a man still hung up on his dead ex-wife was probably the stupidest. But quite frankly, I didn’t care.

But I also didn’t need to hear him validate my fear. I didn’t need to hear him say he missed her. Especially not right now, feeling sated from the orgasm, his dick still tucked against me.

“I’m sure that was hard, seeing photos of her. You’re a good dad, Adam.” I pressed a kiss to his neck.

His lips quirked. “I try.”

We stayed like that for a long moment. Then suddenly, his arms tightened around me and squeezed.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Outside, the storm kept raging.

Two weeks after our return from Colorado Springs, my body was experiencing severe Adam-induced orgasm withdrawal. We hadn’t found much time in the last week to sneak off the ranch. Vibrator-induced orgasms took some of the edge off, but Saturday morning I had witnessed Adam unload a feed delivery, his back and biceps bulging as he threw a fifty-pound bag over one shoulder like it was nothing. By the time I arrived at the library and claimed the steel folding chair between Chloe and Essie, who we had also recruited to Hannah’s sewing circle, I was a grumbly, horny mess.

What I wanted to do was bend over the nearest hay bale and demand he put me out of my misery. Instead, I jabbed my needle into the linen fabric—stretched drum-tight in a bamboo hoop—with a satisfying little ping. Because I was a lady, dammit.

“Nice stitch.” Hannah leaned over to check my work. “So tight and firm.”

“That’s what he said,” Chloe murmured, making me snort.

Hannah smiled patiently. She didn’t laugh much, although I suspected that had more to do with the ribald jokes we traded than her lack of humor. She was definitely a little odd. But, hey, a month into our sewing circle, she hadn’t stabbed anyone yet.

Embroidery, it turned out, was actually pretty fun. I wouldn’t call it relaxing, exactly, the way a bottomless mimosa brunch was, but somehow the repeated stabbing of the needle released a lot of frustration.

“So, James,” Chloe said as she slowly and methodically worked her way through a cluster of French knots that would serve as the center of a daisy. “Did you save any horses with those condoms I gave you?”

My next stitch was impeccable. I gave it all my attention, focusing on the soft scrape of the thread pulled through the fabric rather than the ridiculous pounding of my heart. My cheeks burned. Why was I so embarrassed? I hadn’t done anything wrong. Banging the boss was stupid, but it wasn’t illegal.

“You did!” Chloe shrieked. “Look how red your face is.”

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