Page 13 of Cowboy Don't Go

His dark, slashing eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Did he?”

She swallowed hard, fishing around in her salad for something to say. “Uh-huh. So . . . you’re back in Marietta. For, um, how long, you think?”

He stared at the remnants of his sandwich, then laid them down on his plate. “I’m not tied to any timeline in particular.”

“Ah.”

“But I thought,” he began, “I’d manage at least a couple of weeks before you were ready to kick me out of a job.”

She felt her cheeks go hot and she tucked her hair behind her ear. “No, no. I-I’m not trying to—” Yes, you were. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. I’m used to it.” His eyes, green as the moss that grew on a stone, burned into her with something akin to humor, as if he was enjoying her discomfort.

“Ugh. I’m no good at small talk. I spend way too much time around cattle.”

He was grinning at her now. “I guess that makes two of us.” He gestured at the pink bakery box with Rachel’s logo. “I like that bakery. Discovered ’em last week.”

Relieved, she pushed the box toward him. “Me, too. I do some accounting work for them, and Rachel, in turn, tries to fatten me up.” She opened the box full of cupcakes decorated with purple and yellow pansies, Gerbera daisies and delicate pink-petaled roses. “Please, take one.”

His eyes widened. “Oh, no. They’re too pretty to eat. They’re practically works of art.”

“That’s what I thought, too.” But she lifted one out and sliced it in half, handing him one. “There. Problem solved. They’re too good not to eat.”

With a grateful nod, he accepted. He moaned with the first bite. “Mm-mm. Wow.”

“See what I mean?” She took a bite of hers, too. Forget the salad. This encounter called for copious amounts of sugar and carbs.

He moaned with pleasure again and the sound spread through Shay like melted butter. Fascinated by the way his eyes closed with pleasure and how long his dark lashes were, she forced her gaze away from him, ignoring the rushing tingle of awareness his closeness inspired. What in the world was wrong with her?

“Wait,” he said suddenly. “You’re an accountant?”

“Hmm?” She nearly squeaked, pulling her gaze from the way he crumpled the cupcake wrapper in his fist. “Oh, yes. Freelance. For a few businesses around town. Pays the rent.” She gestured at the frosting bit stuck to his lip. “You’ve got a little . . . on your—”

He licked at it with his tongue, then wiped it off with a napkin, his gaze fixed on her.

With a sinking feeling, she realized that she was . . . attracted to him. Uh-uh. Nope. That will not do.

“Rent, huh?” he repeated. “But you live at the ranch, right?”

She plucked at the neck of her denim shirt. “Since my father passed. I . . . my mother wanted us to come. Stay with her. So, we did. We’re still there. Ryan and me. It’s worked well.”

“You never married?” he asked.

“No,” she said with a dismissive laugh. “You?”

He shook his head. “Married to my job, maybe. Yeah. I like what I do.”

Shay had to file that into the what a waste category. Cooper Lane had been the smartest kid in their high school class. Valedictorian, in fact. He’d given a speech at graduation that had inspired everyone, then headed off to a prestigious Ivy League college back East. But all that had changed a year or two into his college career with his father’s arrest.

Now, he was a handsome, charming, loaded-down-with-history cowboy, hiring out for construction jobs and training horses no one wanted. No doubt he’d spent the last near decade trying to reinvent himself.

Just as she had.

Alone.

Outside on the street, Carol Bingley—the town’s inveterate gossip—walked past the window, glancing in and double taking at the sight of Cooper. And her. Her step only hitched for a moment, but long enough, to connect the two of them. Oh, here we go, Shay thought. Give her enough time and she’ll hang Cooper for just returning to the scene of his father’s crime. Shay straightened and narrowed a you-got-something-to-say? look back at her before she hurried past them on the street. No doubt looking for someone to pass this alarming information to. It wouldn’t surprise her if Carol Bingley had been the responsible party for driving Cooper out of town on a rail in the first place.

Searching for a safe place to look, she settled her gaze on Cooper’s hands, strong and tanned, and turning the fork around in his fingers as if he was as nervous about this interaction as she was. He had gentle hands with long fingers and surprisingly clean nails—for a cowboy—and unbidden, she wondered if his palms were calloused or smooth.

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