Page 38 of Tame Me Daddy

I busied myself coiling the last of the rope, ignoring the heat that crept up my neck. "Just some paperwork stuff. Boring ranch administration."

Maya snorted, the sound so undignified it made me smile despite myself. "Right. That's why you're blushing like a sunset." She playfully bumped my shoulder with hers. "Your secret's safe with me. Just don't forget your friends when you're running this place someday."

"Don't be ridiculous," I muttered, but her words sent a strange thrill through me—not just the acknowledgment of whatever was happening between Grant and me, but the implication of permanence. Of belonging here.

"I've seen how he looks at you," Maya continued, her voice softer now. "And how you look at him. Just . . . be careful, okay? Not because of him—Grant's one of the good ones—but because ranches run on gossip."

I nodded, grateful for her concern and even more for her discretion. "I know. We're being . . . careful."

Maya winked as she hefted her toolbox. "Well, enjoy your 'paperwork' tonight. I'll cover if anyone asks where you disappeared to."

God, what had I done to deserve a friend like Maya?

We finished the last of our tasks and headed back toward the main compound. As we walked, my mind raced ahead to the evening. What should I wear? What did Grant have planned after dinner? The questions tumbled over each other, mixing with a nervous excitement that built with each step.

Back in my small room, I stood before the tiny closet, suddenly, painfully aware of my limited wardrobe options. Most of what I owned now was practical ranch wear, clothes meant for work and durability, not for turning a man's head—especially not a man like Grant. I pulled out the few options that might work for a dinner date, laying them across my narrow bed with critical eyes.

In the end, I settled on my best pair of jeans—dark wash, with no ranch wear or tears—and a soft blue blouse I'd splurged on during a shopping trip with Maya to the next town over. It brought out the blue in my eyes, she'd insisted. My boots would have to do; they were at least properly broken in now, molded to my feet in a way that made them feel like extensions of myself.

As I showered, washing away the day's dust and sweat, my mind kept circling back to Grant's words. "Somewhere special." The way he'd said it hinted at something significant, something he thought would matter to me. For a man who chose his words as carefully as Grant did, the emphasis hadn't been accidental.

I let my hair down from its usual practical ponytail, allowing it to fall in loose waves around my shoulders. A touch of the mascara and lip gloss Maya had convinced me to buy completed the transformation from ranch hand to . . . what? A woman going ona date. A woman exploring something new and slightly terrifying with a man who saw parts of her she'd always kept hidden.

Seven o'clock couldn't come fast enough.

*

My stomach churned with a mix of excitement and nerves that made me feel like a teenager again. I checked my watch for the third time in five minutes. Six fifty-eight.

I'd chosen to wait inside the side entrance—a small mudroom that led out to a gravel path—rather than standing exposed outside where curious eyes might spot me. The bunkhouse had been quiet when I left my room, most of the hands either still at dinner or relaxing in the common area, but better safe than sorry.

At precisely seven o'clock, headlights swept across the small window. My heart jumped into my throat as I watched Grant's truck pull up outside. He was exactly on time—not a minute early, not a minute late. Like everything about him, his punctuality spoke of control and consideration.

I stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind me quietly. The evening air held the lingering warmth of the day, with just a hint of the cooler night to come. Grant was already out of the truck, moving around to the passenger side to open the door for me. He looked different. Not dramatically so, but enough to make me pause.

Instead of his typical ranch wear, he wore dark jeans that looked new and a crisp button-down shirt in a deep blue that made his tanned skin glow in the fading light. No hat tonight, leaving his dark hair with those touches of silver at the temples exposed. He'd trimmed his beard too, the precise edges accentuating the strong line of his jaw.

"You look beautiful," he said simply as I approached. His voice had that quiet authority that never failed to make my stomach flutter.

"So do you," I replied, then felt heat rise to my cheeks at the bald admission. "I mean, you look nice. Different."

His lips quirked in that almost-smile that I'd come to crave. "Thank you. Thought the occasion called for something other than work clothes."

The truck itself had been washed, I realized as I climbed in with Grant's hand steadying my elbow. The interior smelled faintly of leather conditioner and pine, with an underlying note that I recognized as Grant's cologne.

Once we were both settled and heading down the long ranch driveway, a strange silence fell between us. For all our intense moments in his office, all our daily interactions around the ranch, this was our first time truly alone together away from Warwick. The silence stretched, not exactly uncomfortable but laden with awareness.

"Your hair looks nice down," Grant finally said, his eyes focused on the road ahead but clearly aware of me beside him. "You should wear it that way more often."

I touched the strands self-consciously. "Not practical for ranch work."

"No, I suppose not." His right hand rested casually on the console between us while his left guided the wheel with easy confidence. "But not everything has to be practical all the time."

Gradually, we fell into conversation about the ranch—safe territory for both of us. I told him about the roan mare that had finally let me approach her without shying away, and he shared updates on a business deal he was negotiating for new breeding stock.

"You've come a long way in a short time," Grant observed, glancing at me briefly before returning his attention to thewinding country road. One hand remained firmly on the wheel while the other now rested tantalizingly close to mine on the console. "Not just with the ranch work."

I knew exactly what he meant—how I'd gradually opened up to the dynamic between us, embracing the parts of myself I'd spent years repressing. "Having someone who sees all of me helps," I murmured quietly. "Makes it easier to see myself clearly."

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