Page 13 of Tame Me Daddy

The first calf seemed to sense my inexperience immediately. As I attempted to guide it into the chute, it balked, digging in its hooves. I pushed against its flank as Maya had shown me, but the animal was solid muscle and outweighed me significantly.

"Use your body weight," Maya called. "Lean into it."

I tried, pressing my shoulder against the calf's side, but just as it started to move, it jerked sideways. I lost my balance and stumbled, landing hard on my backside in the dusty pen.

"You okay?" Maya asked, offering me a hand up while clearly trying to suppress a smile.

"Fine," I mumbled, my cheeks burning with embarrassment as I accepted her help. I dusted off my jeans, trying to salvage some dignity. "Just... getting my butt acquainted with Texas dirt."

"Try again. This time, plant your feet wider for balance," Maya advised. "And remember—you're the boss, not the calf."

I tried again with the same animal. This time it moved into the chute, but when I attempted to secure its head, it jerked violently. The rope slipped through my gloved hands, burning my palms despite the leather protection. The calf broke free, trotting back to the far end of the pen with what I swore was a smug look.

Two more attempts with two different calves yielded similar results. One sent me sprawling into the fence, and another stepped squarely on my foot. Only my inadequate canvas sneakers getting crushed convinced me that proper boots weren't just a fashion statement out here.

After my fourth failure—during which I ended up with my face inches from a fresh cow patty—Maya mercifully suggested a break. "Let's catch our breath for a minute," she said.

I leaned against the fence, my arms aching and my pride in tatters. Back home, I'd worked mainly with the youngest calves or helped with feeding. This was a completely different league. The morning sun beat down on my neck, and sweat trickled between my shoulder blades, making my shirt stick uncomfortably to my back.

"Don't beat yourself up," Maya said, passing me a water bottle from her back pocket. "First time I tried to handle a calf, it dragged me halfway across the pen before someone rescued me."

I took a grateful swig of warm water. "At least I'm providing the morning entertainment," I said, gesturing to a couple of ranch hands who'd paused on their way past to watch my struggles.

That's when I noticed him.

Grant Warwick stood on the far side of the pen, arms crossed over his chest, watching us. No, watching me. His stance was deceptively casual, but there was nothing casual about the intensity of his gaze. My stomach dropped. How long had hebeen there? How many of my embarrassing failures had he witnessed?

Maya followed my gaze and waved cheerfully. "Morning, boss!"

Grant raised a hand in acknowledgment and began walking toward us. His stride was purposeful, eating up the distance with long, confident steps. I frantically tried to dust off my jeans and straighten my shirt, aware of how disheveled I must look after my multiple tumbles.

"How's it going, ladies?" Grant asked as he reached us. His voice was deep, with a slight drawl that hadn't been as noticeable during my interview. His eyes, brown and steady, fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

"Getting there," Maya answered cheerfully. "Cherry's learning the ropes."

"I can see that," he remarked, his tone neutral. But there was something in his expression—not mockery, but not complete approval either—that made my cheeks burn even hotter.

"I'm sorry," I blurted out before I could stop myself. "I'll get better, I promise. I just need more practice."

Grant studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, unexpectedly, he stepped into the pen. "Come here," he said, gesturing me over.

I approached cautiously, hyperaware of his presence. He was taller than I remembered from yesterday's brief meeting, his shoulders broader. Up close, he smelled of leather and something woodsy—cologne, maybe, or just the natural scent of a man who spent his days outdoors.

"The problem is your stance," Grant explained, his voice matter-of-fact. "You're making yourself small. These animals respond to confidence."

Before I could respond, he moved behind me. My breath caught as his hands settled on my shoulders, gently but firmly adjustingmy posture. The contact, though professional, sent a jolt through me that had nothing to do with the task at hand.

"Wider stance," he instructed, his voice close to my ear. "Ground yourself."

His boot nudged my feet farther apart, and his hands guided my arms into position. The heat of his body so close to mine sent an unexpected thrill down my spine—one that confused and alarmed me. His hands were strong and sure, his guidance precise. I stood perfectly still, absorbing every correction and trying desperately to ignore the way my heart raced at his proximity.

"When you approach," Grant continued, seemingly oblivious to my inner turmoil, "move deliberately. No hesitation. They sense that. You want to , uh, dominate the animal."

His hands dropped away, and I felt their absence like a physical loss. I instinctively straightened my shoulders, trying to maintain the posture he'd given me.

"Try again," he said, stepping back slightly but remaining close enough to intervene if needed.

Under his watchful eye, I approached the next calf. This time, remembering his instructions, I planted my feet firmly and moved with purpose. My hands still trembled slightly, but I kept them steady enough to guide the calf toward the chute.

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