Page 103 of A Forever Kind of Rancher

He shook his head and took a deep breath. Sex was more powerful than he’d given it credit for, that was all.

It certainly wasn’t that his heart was thawing out. Hell no. It was just his body.

That was it. That was all it could ever be.

Grace was ready to climb the walls of her office by the time five o’clock rolled around.

Normally she was the last to leave. Such was her level of commitment. Not just to her job, but to this vague notion that she had to cause no trouble and make no mistakes. But with her boss treating her like he had been, and with the new “projects” that had just come across her desk—which included mundane paperwork that would not advance her or grow her income, and was someone else’s flipping job—she wasn’t hanging out.

No. She had something to get to. She had life happening. Freaking life. And wasn’t hanging around in an office with what smelled like a slowly dying career.

She let out a harsh breath as she exited the building. This was the kind of thing that would make her parents worry, she was sure of it. And they had enough worry. She didn’t want to add to their worry. She was supposed to be their success story, her own adding to theirs. She would reach a point, a place, where she didn’t have to try so hard. Where they could bask in her accomplishments and so could she.

Success. Success was the gold ring. Not satisfaction. Not vague, positive emotions.

Certainly not burning, quivering lust. Which she didn’t just have. She was full-on burning, quivering lust. It was ridiculous.

But she didn’t care. She was going on to the art studio, aided by the address he’d texted over. And she was going to screw his brains out, instead of staying at work late. So there.

Yes, she, Grace Song, who had always screwed with her brains firmly in, was about to go shake the brains out of a man. Via her excellent sex skills.

Which, she had, if she said so herself. And Zack seemed to confirm this by his desire to keep...well, having it with her.

She got out of the cab, dodging little puddles on the sidewalk as she went, and scurried into the building.

She sent him a text.

Where R you?

Upstairs.

Where upstairs? she typed, snorting.

Top floor. The whole top floor.

She stepped into the elevator and punched the up arrow, jiggling her knee while she waited for the lift to reach the desired floor.

When the doors opened, she stopped.

The room was massive, a wall of windows on the far side, drop cloths, tables, sculptures, canvases, all throughout the giant space.

“What is this?” she asked, walking inside, her heels clicking on the cement floor.

“It’s a space that Marsha has set aside for her clients to use. Though, she hates to let me in because I make a mess.”

Her heart stopped when she saw him. He was wearing a white T-shirt, streaked with black, his muscular arms covered in the same dirt. He had sweat tracks on his face and his hair was sticking up at opposing angles, like he’d run his fingers through it several different directions.

“Yeah...” she said, looking around. “You did, kind of.”

“And also the fire.”

She looked past him, at the wrought-iron stove behind him. “It’s warm in here.”

“I don’t play well with others,” he said. “It shouldn’t be too surprising.”

“You play pretty well with me....”

“When I have to keep my clothes on, people don’t like me much.”

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