Page 28 of A Forever Kind of Rancher

She turned the bottle over and squeezed a generous helping onto the sandwich.

“Just like that, Wendy.”

His voice was like silk, and the sensation it sent along her nerves was glorious.

“I don’t need encouragement to make the sandwich.”

“All right.”

She got the tomato and sliced it, then laid it on along with some turkey. And then she handed him the sandwich with no ceremony. But when he took it from her, their fingertips brushed, and her breath was sucked straight from her lungs.

He looked at her. And he really looked. Saw her. Looked into her. He took a slow bite of the sandwich, and there was something about the way he did it, purposeful, and intense, that made the space between her thighs throb.

She shook her head and turned away from him.

“It’s a good sandwich,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

Doing housework for the man felt like sex. And that seemed unfair. Because it should defuse things. Everything. This reminder that he was normal. That he was a human. That he could never live up to whatever fantasy her body was convinced he would give. Because how could he? No man could. No man could live up to the ridiculous thing she had built up in her mind.

Or rather, tried not to build up.

“So you only want to stay here a month,” he said.

“Yes. That was my thought.”

“And what do you want to do after that?”

“I don’t know.”

He set his sandwich down on a paper towel on the counter. And then he grabbed hold of the loaf of bread and took two pieces out. “Do you like mustard, Wendy?”

“No,” she said.

“Mayonnaise?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

And then, slowly and methodically, he began to make a sandwich. This one without mustard. And she could only stare at him because she didn’t know why it made her want to cry. Because this was such a small thing. Because she was supposed to be working for him, and he was doing things for her, and she had made him a sandwich, and they could’ve easily made their own, but he was making one for her.

And it just seemed exceptional. Maybe it shouldn’t. Maybe that was the biggest commentary on her marriage to Daniel so far.

That she wanted to weep as she watched strong, scarred masculine hands put turkey between two slices of bread.

He handed it to her, and she did her best to swallow the lump in her throat.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She took a bite of the sandwich. “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she said finally.

“But not this.”

“No,” she said. “Not this. My mother cleaned houses. It’s a good job. It’s a great job. I don’t look down on anyone for any kind of work that they do.”

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