Page 36 of Claimed By the Cowboys

I can’t back out now. It would be wildly unfair to give Dalton his day and then say no to Tate and Brent, because then it might seem like I prefer Dalton over them. Or like I am okay with ruining my relationship with Dalton, but I want to preserve Tate and Brent…

This was a freaking awful idea.

I really have screwed everything up. Like, the whole delicate balance that we had around our friendship, the way we’ve related to each other for the past fifteen years… gone. And I did that.

I’m going to have to work hard to make sure the relationship that I have with Dalton isn’t permanently broken. That we can still salvage it. That we’re still friends.

I’m not sure that I want to do the same thing with Tate and Brent, but I can’t back out now. I’ll figure out a way to fix this. Even if I have to completely take that on all by myself.

When we get to the house, I’m immediately paralyzed by the smell of something totally amazing.

“Holy cow,” I murmur, my feet on the back step as Tate opens the back door that leads to the kitchen. “What on earth is that?”

He winks. “Come inside and find out.”

I roll my eyes but follow him in. “Tate. You’re giving Hansel and Gretel vibes.”

He laughs. The kitchen is relatively clean, with no signs of what’s clearly making the amazing smell in the oven. The island that Tate custom made with a wood butcher block top is lightly coated in flour, though, so I wonder if there’s still a lot to do.

“It’s a twist on your favorite.” He smiles.

My eyes go round. “You made lemon cake?”

Tate makes a lemon cake that’s absolutely incredible. Like, it tastes like sunshine in your mouth. But I don’t smell lemon. It does smell kind of citrusy…

“Blood orange.” Tate smiles.

I wrinkle my nose in confusion. “But those aren’t in season.”

“I used some of the ones you canned, and the syrup. You’re so good at that stuff, Piper. Really, it could be a great add-on to the catering business. When people ask what I used, I’ll just refer them right to you.”

Warmth floods through me, and I can’t help it. I throw my arms around Tate and hug him. His big hands scoop me up, squeezing me tight before he plants me on the butcher block.

“Hey!” I squeak, looking around me. “There’s flour on here.”

Tate smirks. Then, he smacks one hand down into a huge pile of flour and presses it gently against my face.

I gasp. “Tate.”

“Piper.” His blue eyes are glowing with mischief. I don’t know what he’s got up his sleeve, but….

The timer dings. Tate’s grin widens. “Hold that thought.”

He turns, getting a trivet out, and quickly takes the cake out of the oven, setting it on the counter opposite from where we are. I take the time when his back is turned to dip my hands in the flour at my sides. When Tate turns back, he tugs off his apron, and that same tricky grin is back.

“Now all we have to do is wait for it to cool. I wonder?—”

I smack one of my flour-covered hands over his mouth, cutting him off. The other one comes to his chest, and a handprint appears outlined in white dust on his left pec. His t-shirt is black, which makes the flour handprint stand out remarkably well.

Tate blinks. Then, his smile turns hungry. “Is that how it’s going to go?”

I smile back. “You started it.”

“And I think I’m going to finish it,” he growls.

I giggle, hopping down from the island, my hands getting more flour as I do. Tate’s behind me in a second, pinning me tothe island with his body. His hands come to either side of me, and I could duck down and run, except for the large, very hard thigh that’s pressing between my legs. My chest rises and falls, rapidly, as I try to get enough air.

Tate holds my gaze. One of his hands comes away from the top of the island and reaches for my ass. We both suck in a breath as he puts a handprint there, squeezing hard.

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