Page 6 of Dear Santa, Send Me a Cowboy
My fingers twitched at the thought of tearing the belt from the loops and unleashing whatever was concealed behind that zipper, but the thought quickly fizzled when I heard him cough.
Shit.
Averting my eyes, I found myself escaping his line of vision and headed into my kitchen where I felt his stare heavy on my back.
“Well, congratulations, you helped a perfectly capable woman.” I hid behind my counter where I shoved a cookie in my mouth and kept my stare off the cowboy. It wasn’t like I could see him from this distance without my glasses anyway, but it didn’t help that I could feel his gaze scorching down my body.
“I don’t doubt that you’re capable, darlin’.” I heard the steady clunking sound of his boots walking along the floor until they gradually crept closer and into the kitchen.
God, why was he still here? He was ruining my cozy night with his too arrogant and too rugged presence, but a small part of me—a very tiny, microscopic part—wanted him to stay.
“What are you doing?” I reluctantly lifted my eyes until I found him on the opposite side of the counter with his palms resting on top of the granite. Rough, large hands were splayed out on my marble tops as his thick veins that trailed up beneath the sleeves of his jacket caused my throat to become dry instantly.
“You got a man?” His voice turned hoarse, almost like he didn’t want to ask.
A bead of sweat broke out across my brow as a forced chuckle tumbled out of my mouth. Stuffing my mouth with another delicious sugar cookie, I tried to awkwardly eat my way out of the question.
Who asks that anyway? Who asks someone if they have “a man”?
Surely, it was more than obvious that I didn’t have one, but when I mistakenly captured his stare with mine, I saw just how obvious it wasn’t. His dark brows were drawn inward, and an unamused glower was directed at me, spawning my chewing to slow.
“Well?” he asked again with a grunt. “I’m really hopin’ your answer is no because I might have to kick his ass when he gets here.”
Swallowing the rest of the cookie, I watched for a change in his expression or at least an “I’m just messing with you”, but when that didn’t come, I narrowed my eyes.
“You’d kick his ass? Why?”
Sometime between me walking over here and shoving cookies down my throat, he had put his hat back on. But on a huff, he removed his palms from the counter and crossed those thick arms across his chest.
“For makin’ you feel like you have to do it all yourself.” His eyes searched mine. “Don’t get me wrong, a woman like you is more than capable, but with a man around, you shouldn’t have to be all the time.”
My mouth dropped open, but when no words came out, I slowly closed the gap. How can he go from looking at me like I was the biggest inconvenience to him, to now looking at me like I was his dessert?
Like he wanted to devour me whole and take care of me all at the same time.
Breaking up the tension with a cough, I spun on my heel and went for my opened bottle of wine. “Well, lucky for you, Rocky, I don’t have a man, but I do have a son. ” I grabbed a glass from my cabinet and began pouring a hefty amount, trying my damndest to deflect the tension I had created.
It wasn’t like it mattered anyway, but it was an instinctual reaction that kicked in whenever I brought up Silvan to another man.
“Yeah?” His voice softened as if to ease my angst. “And where is he?”
“Spending time with his father…unfortunately,” the last bit came out in a low grumble but was still heard by Lawson. Then doing whatever I could do to change the subject, I added, “You seem the opposite of your dad. He’s one of the nicest, sweetest men I have ever met. I couldn’t even picture him arguing with anyone, let alone fighting.”
With the glass in one hand, I spun back around until my back was pressed up against the counter beside the fridge and I had a good view of the large cowboy. Still stoic and reserved, his eyes hadn’t wavered from mine as a ripple of butterflies exploded throughout my stomach. A feeling I hadn’t felt in years, and a part of me wanted more.
More of whatever this grumpy man could give me, even if it was a silent stare-off or a pointless argument. “You don’t think I have a soft side?” He leaned in with a faint smirk on his mouth.
“Define soft.”
His smirk deepened.
“Those curves you got, darlin’.” He nodded his head in the direction of my hips and dragged his stare over my waist. Suddenly feeling hot, I took a long swig of wine. “Think I could be real soft to those.”
I froze mid-sip.
Did he really just say that out loud?
A surge of heat shot up my legs as I tried swallowing the mouthful of wine, but ultimately failed as it went down the wrong pipe, causing me to erupt into a fit of coughs. An image of him holding on to my hips while those rough hands squeezed and kneaded my flesh assaulted my already fuzzy head.
