Page 133 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter, pressing closer to the glass. “Brutus the bull.”
The bull is just standing there near the main gate into the property, massive head lowered, pawing at the gravel like he’s preparing for battle. The same bull that destroyed my rental car on my first day here, the rental I’m still paying off in pathetic monthly installments that barely cover the interest.
My phone buzzes with a payment confirmation from my latest freelance client. Web design for a boutique in Denver. The payment barely makes a dent in what I owe, but it’s something. At this rate, I’ll be paying off that destroyed car until I’m eighty.
Now that things are starting to feel solid between me and the cowboys, we’re going to have to figure out what happens with the ranch, how we handle ownership, payment… if we even put a price on it at all. It’s not just land and buildings anymore; it’s a future home. Gosh, I can’t believe I am even saying those words. Things happened so fast.
Another flash ofmovement catches my eye through the window. A deep blue SUV turns into the driveway from the main road.
I gasp, watching Brutus’s head snap up, focusing on the vehicle.
The bull snorts, a cloud of hot breath visible in the cool morning air. He scrapes one hoof against the ground, tears up a chunk of our recently repaired lawn, and I swear I can see him calculating distance and trajectory.
“Don’t you dare, you oversized hamburger.”
Brutus charges.
The SUV driver must see him coming because the engine roars, tires spinning as they floor it. The vehicle shoots forward just as Brutus reaches where it was, his horns missing the bumper by inches. He skids to a stop in a cloud of dust and gravel, snorting its head into the air in displeasure at the missed target.
The SUV continues up the drive at a much more cautious pace now. Brutus watches it go, then turns and ambles back toward the main road like he didn’t just attempt vehicular homicide.
Behind me, Chonkarella yawns dramatically from the hanging chair while both kittens sprawl across my bed, clearly exhausted from their 3:00 a.m. zoomies session that had them racing from one end of the room to the other like tiny, furry tornadoes.
“Oh, sure, now you’re tired,” I tell them. “After keeping me up half the night with your parkour practice.”
I turn back to the window, figuring I’d better tell the guys about Brutus before he actually manages to gore someone. Or something. Again.
I hurry downstairs in my jeans and T-shirt, no shoes. The kitchen is empty. The guys must be out working or checking the damage from last night’s barn leak that had them all running out after dinner.
There’s a knock at the front door.
Walker appears at my side as I reach for the handle, sliding his arm around my waist and pulling me in for a quick kiss that makes my toes curl.
“You look gorgeous this morning,” he murmurs against my ear, and I feel his smile.
“I look like I haven’t brushed my hair yet,” I counter, but I’m smiling too.
“Gorgeously disheveled, then.”
These small moments, these casual touches and compliments, I still can’t believe this is my life now. That I get to have this every day.
I open the door, and we’re faced with two men in business suits who look deeply uncomfortable in the morning heat. They’re already sweating through their jackets, ties slightly askew.
The older one, mid-fifties with silver at his temples, attempts a professional smile that fails. The younger one behind him clutches a leather portfolio and looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Mornin’, ma’am. Sir,” the older man greets, his voicecarrying a warm, rural Texas drawl softened by a faint lisp on hiss’s. “Name’s Jim Matthew, Matthew and Johnson Law Firm.” He tips his head toward the man beside him. “And this here’s my associate, Brett Yeaman.”
Walker doesn’t move from the doorway, his body language shifting from relaxed to protective. “Can I help you gentlemen?”
The older man steps forward, adjusting the brim of his hat before speaking. “I’m lookin’ to speak with a Miss Sophia Hollis.”
“That’s me,” I say, straightening even though my pulse has already picked up.
He tips his hat politely, then removes it, revealing a neatly combed patch of thinning gray hair. “Mind if we speak in private for a spell?”
“My mate Walker will join us,” I reply firmly, leaving no room for discussion. If Ronan’s name is anywhere near the reason these men are here, I’m not facing it alone.
Jim’s attention flicks between us, but after a beat, he nods. “Fair enough, ma’am.”
