Page 13 of Craving Her Cowboy
She stopped, then turned and faced him again. “You surprised?”
He glared at her. “It’s the principle. I came here to get away from that shit.”
Asha let the brush dangle from her hand. “Some things follow you, whether you want them to or not.”
He could feel the muscles in his shoulders tighten, the old, familiar strain that never left anymore. “Why are you always where I am?” It came out more broken than he’d intended.
She let it sit. Then, “You don’t want me here, just say it.”
He didn’t. Couldn’t. Instead, he found a different target. “You think you’re better at this than me.”
She laughed, the sound dry as dirt. “I don’t think I’m better. I just do the work.”
He watched her, and for a second, the air between them felt dangerous. Like something about to catch fire.
He stepped back, gripping the top rail so tight his knuckles went white. “Forget it,” he said, voice flat.
Asha held his gaze, and he saw something shift in her face—not pity, not empathy, just the recognition of a fight that was going nowhere. “Don’t come in here with your bullshit today,” she said, calm but final.
She started brushing the horse again, and Gavin found himself out of things to say. He turned on his heel and left, each step away from the stall making him feel lighter and heavier at the same time.
He pushed out into the daylight, blinking hard against the sudden glare. In the distance, the hills rose and fell, indifferent to everything that happened inside the barn. He stared at them until his eyes stopped burning.
For a long minute, he just stood there, breathing. One count at a time.
The problem with anger was that it never really left. It waited. Gavin lasted a whole thirty seconds outside before the need to finish what he’d started became too much. He paced twice across the gravel, then turned and walked straight back into the barn, footsteps echoing off concrete and old timber.
Asha was still in the stall. She had her back to him, running the brush along the horse’s flank, but he could tell by the stiff set of her shoulders that she knew he’d returned. She didn’t look up as he approached. He leaned into the doorway, not caring that the bay gelding eyed him with mild annoyance.
“You got something to say?” she asked, not breaking her stroke.
He could have left it there. Could have swallowed it, let the moment pass, been the bigger man. He didn’t. “I’m sick of people acting like I need to be looked after. Or, hell, like I’m some fucking group project that needs fixin’.”
She put the brush down with a thud. “Nobody’s here to fix you.”
He stepped in, crowding the space. “You really believe that? Because all I see is another person waiting for me to screw up, just so you can feel better about your own shit.”
She spun around, eyes cold and clear. “You don’t know me.”
He was close enough now to see the tiny flecks of gold in her irises, the faint pulse ticking at her temple. He leaned in, voice low. “I know you never quit. I know you push everything and everyone until they give up or break. I know you came here because it was the only place left for you to go.”
Her mouth tightened, a muscle jumping in her jaw. She looked away, then back, eyes narrowed. "Guess we're both running from something, then."
He expected her to retreat, but she moved closer, squaring off until there was barely air between them.
“You want to talk about quitting? You ran out here to the ranch because you’re scared of what happens if you go back to Texas. You’re scared of living up to the McAllister name, or worse, failing it.” She jabbed a finger at his chest. “And you’re so busy being pissed off about it that you can’t see when someone’s trying to just be there.”
His own hand shot out, catching her wrist before she could retract it. The contact was electric—skin on skin, pulse against pulse. “You’re not helping. You’re making it worse.”
She didn’t pull away. “You’re not the only one with scars, Gavin.”
His throat closed up. For a second, he didn’t know what to do with the words. His hand loosened, but her wrist stayed in his grip, soft but iron-strong.
“You think you’re the only person who wakes up every day and wishes it was different?” she said, voice shaking now. “You think you’re the only one who wants out?”
They were so close he could feel her breath on his face. He wanted to say something—maybe an apology, maybe fuck you, maybe both—but his words tangled. He looked down at her mouth, then up, and saw that she’d done the same.
The air went electric, tighter than a guitar string.
