Page 18 of His Cowboy Heart

When he heard the word receipts, Brooks began shaking his head. “No more receipts!” he called before he began plodding up the stairs. I knew my cover would be blown the second Brooks reached his uncle, and with Flynn still watching me like I was a tiny pebble he was trying to remove from the sole of his heavy boot, I couldn’t risk Brooks or Uncle Curtis seeing us anywhere near each other.

My prayers that Flynn had magically disappeared didn’t work, so I did my best to act cool as I ignored him and returned to stirring the stew.

“Curtis told one of the guys you needed help carrying some pots down to the bunkhouse?” Flynn asked coldly before he entered the kitchen and moved toward me. I held my breath as his hands reached out, but all he did was take one of the massive stockpots off the stove. I turned off the flame on the smallest pot that held the stew for the family which included Curtis, Brooks, Xavier and me. When I went to reach for the second stockpot, Flynn grunted, “Leave it. Thing probably weighs more than you do. I’ll come back for it.”

If the man had left out the snide remark about the stew weighing more than me, I probably would have happily left both pots to him. But his pissy attitude and condescending tone pressed all my buttons—and not the good ones.

“It’s fine,” I announced. “I’m stronger than I look.”

Flynn made a little grunting sound but otherwise ignored me. I picked up the pot, which was in fact very heavy, and practically waddled out of the house. Flynn was several steps ahead of me. He carried the pot like it weighed nothing more than a cup of coffee.

As slow as I was moving with the stockpot, it was made all that much worse because I had a delicious view of Flynn’s ass and the flexing of his back and arm muscles.

I expected Flynn to merely leave me behind, but when he slowed his steps, I eventually caught up to him. I felt like I was going to pass out.

“Stew?” Flynn asked pointedly as he looked down at the pot of stew before shifting his gaze to me. The asshole was calling me out on the pretend guy I’d made up to Brooks.

“Stewart,” I corrected. “What about him?” I asked as sweat began pouring off my forehead. It was all I could do not to let any of it end up in the stew that was causing the sweat in the first place.

“Convenient,” Flynn said simply.

Was the dick actually implying that I was lying?

Youarelying, you twit.

“What does that mean?” I snapped while simultaneously ignoring the voice of logic in my brain. I was out of breath and my arms ached, but I refused to show any of that to a man who could wield so much power over me, whether it was with a sensuous kiss or a cruel rejection.

Flynn didn’t answer me, which was good because I wouldn’t have been able to talk anymore at that point anyway. I had to preserve my oxygen so I didn’t keel over in front of the dick. I was reliant on following Flynn once again, and what had probably only been minutes seemed to turn into hours.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I thought I heard Flynn insisting that I leave the pot on the ground and he’d come back and get it, but I wasn’t sure. I pretended hewassaying it, though, because that was the only thing keeping me moving. The man had seen me beaten to a pulp, he’d assumed I was a woman not once but twice, he’d made me feel stupid with passion with a couple of amazing kisses and then he proved that he was just like every other ignorant asshole who looked at me twice when I had my glam on. Hell, he probably would have joined in on my beating in town if he’d realized I was a guy and not a girl.

Stupid fucking damsel in distress syndrome. I had it in spades, though I’d obviously altered it a bit, especially after reading so many romance novels as a teenager. They’d been books about men and women getting together, of course, but since I always put myself in the girl’s spot, it hadn’t really mattered. Despite how silly some of the storylines had been and certain partshadn’tleft me hot and bothered, I’d always loved the moment when the pirate or the duke—or yes,the fucking cowboy—saved the woman who always did something stupid that left her captured by the villain. I’d envisioned my own steamy fantasies as needed, but the end of the story was always the same.

The couple got their happily ever after.

That was where fantasy and reality always collided and knocked me back on my ass. Even at that age, I’d known in my gut that I wouldn’t get my own happy ending. Not the kind I truly wanted, anyway.

It had been nice to begin to identify with more and more characters in books and movies that had featured same-sex couplesandbecome socially acceptable, but even when it’d been a couple guys facing a perfect future together in the story, I was always left feeling a little sad.

Those stories should have given me this wild hope that I’d find someone like the badass guy with the heart of gold, but I knew better than that. Even as being gay became more mainstream,Iwas anything but mainstream. I was lost somewhere in the middle, and I couldn’t really even explain why.

“Jules,” I heard someone call, though they seemed far away.

Wasn’t I supposed to be in the middle of something?

The reminder of where I was came screaming back to life when I felt my body catch fire.

“Jules!” Flynn yelled, but he was too late because as I lifted the pot from what had to be the kitchen tile floor in the bunkhouse, my noodle-like arms chose that moment to give out on me. While the stew wasn’t searing hot on the top, what splashed onto me as the entire pot tilted when it hit the lip of the counter came from the deeper contents of the container.

And that shitwasfucking hot.

Fire licked at my skin as the stew from the tipped pot began tilting left and slid over my entire forearm before hitting the kitchen floor in big splotches. I wasn’t sure whether I cried out or not but instead of following my instinct to release the pot and pull my arm away, some small part of my brain told me I couldn’t let the whole container hit the ground, so I did my best to try and right it on my own.

“Jesus Christ!” Flynn yelled and then, thankfully, he was pulling the pot out of my weak arms.

“Is most of it still in there?” I asked tiredly, even as my brain began to process the howling nerve signals it was being sent. Somewhere in the melee, I’d sunk to my knees. I thought I might be holding my arm, but I wasn’t sure.

“Is most of it still—?” Flynn said in disbelief before he reached down and wrapped his arm around my waist. As he pulled me upright, I realized I was holding my left arm with my right hand in order to protect it, but every little jostle had me moaning in agony.

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