Page 14 of Take Me Away, Cowboy

She imagined that move being used to remove the lacy bra she’d donned underneath her tank, and despite her best efforts not to blush, heat singed her cheeks. Luckily, it was still warm enough she could blame the color on the abnormal heat trapped in the valley.

Thank God she was leaving before the winter hit—she’d have no excuse for her body’s visceral reaction to him, then.

“Thanks.” She took the ice-cold longneck from him, leaned the top towards him to toast. “Cheers to your new farm.”

They clinked bottles, each taking a swig of the beer, each trying to figure out what to say next. She wondered if the same surge of electricity branded him the way it did her.

“No one told me starting back up a farm in Montana in late summer was a fool’s errand. Or suicide. I haven’t decided which, yet.”

“This isn’t normal. Like ten degrees above normal, more like it.”

She put the beer to her forehead to cool it down, acutely aware of the way his gaze took in all of her. He only paused to follow a bead of sweat from the glass that traveled down her cheek. His hand flinched, like he was fighting the urge to wipe it clean. Sure, it would be a horrible idea, but she still wished he’d give in to that urge, see where it would lead.

Not that she’d let him know that. Her cheeks were red enough as it was.

“That’s what I hear, but I’m wondering why no one bothered to tell me that when I came to check out the place. I might have rethought my exit strategy from the Corps. Like maybe ranching in Phoenix. I hear it’s cool down there this time of year.” They both laughed.

The conversation with this man was easy, light. Comfortable.

Except her body threatened to stop listening to her mind altogether and throw herself at him. Sheer will kept her steady.

“Well, for one, I wasn’t here, or I would have. Plus, they probably took one look at you and figured you knew what you were doing. If I didn’t know about your time in the Marines, I would’ve assumed you were born and bred on a farm.”

She hoped that didn’t come out the way it sounded in her head. Like she’d been caught staring at the pec muscles that flexed under his shirt.

Even though she was. Shamelessly.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean by that, but I’ll take it as a compliment from someone who actually was born and raised on a farm.” She flushed crimson again, sipped at her beer to hide it. “As long as you don’t mean I look like I stepped in cow shit, or anything like that.”

He tossed her an easy smile and her skin tingled, cool in the warm breeze.

“So,” she said, trying to steer the conversation to more benign territory, “whydidyou choose farming? It isn’t easy, and the money’s crap on a good year.”

He kicked at an aspen stump Paige herself had trimmed that time last year when she’d been home.

“I don’t know. I knew I wanted to get some land, use my body while I still can.” He paused to sip his beer, and she thought of ways he could use his body that would have mortified her if he could read her mind. “But to be honest, it all seemed kinda romantic.”

Chills trickled up her spine despite the heat.

“Romantic? I’ve heard of farming called a lot of things—dirty, tough, impossible, back-breaking, maybe—but never romantic.” She nudged his hips, teasing him.

“Yeah, I know all that’s true, too, more than I care to admit.”

He took off his ball cap and ran his hands through his hair. Paige was secretly thrilled to find that the curls springing from underneath the fabric were soft waves above. She wanted her hands to slide through his hair, grabbing fistfuls of it…

Paige shook her head, trying in vain to erase the ridiculous thoughts of her new neighbor in some sort of compromising position.

“But truthfully,” he continued, looking out over the land now wrapped in darkness, “think about it—the early mornings with just you and the land that survives based on the work you put into it, the fog rolling over the valley that most people sleep through, the sun on my back when I’m in the fields, lemonade in the summer on my porch, the one I build back from matchsticks to a formidable deck, looking out over every inch of my farm knowing it’smine, that I made it, that no one can take it from me. Seeing the progress I make as I make it. It’s the most real thing I’ve ever done. How’s that not romantic?”

Without thinking, Paige closed the three feet of warm space between them and wrapped her arms around Owen, squeezing tightly. She all but had to jump to do it, but it felt right, his body against hers.

“What was that for?” he asked when she pulled away.

“I don’t know, to be honest. I was halfway to hating you, since you kept me up all night thinking about being pushed or pulled through life. But you’ve just made me see my home for so much more than I’ve ever been able to, and I’m grateful.”

She was embarrassed by her sudden display of emotion.

That is, until Owen smiled, showing off perfect teeth and, Paige noticed, dimples that rivaled Shirley Temple’s. Then she was back to pure, unadulterated appreciation.

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