Page 5 of Her Grumpy Cowboy
“Don’t climb any more ladders without me.”
The bell jingles.The door clicks, and he’s gone.Tall and solid as he strides into the falling snow, carrying a quiet gravity that makes the whole world—and me—lean toward him.I don’t know him.But some reckless part of me is already imagining how he’d feel under my hands.How he’d taste.I’m an idiot.Or maybe I’m awake for the first time in years.
Jamie appears in the doorway, still clutching the milk pitcher.“So… that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
I laugh weakly, staring at the door.“Yeah,” I breathe.“Yeah, it was.”
Chapter2
Grady
Silver Bell Hollow has changed every year I stayed away—new paint, new signs, new faces—but the bones are the same.
I should go back to the ranch.Touch base with Mary and Christopher.Keep my stay short and civil.That was the deal I made with myself: show up, pay my respects, keep my distance from anything that feels like home.Because staying is a bad idea for a man who’s good at leaving.Staying leads to wanting things I can’t have.
Too late,my conscience whispers, recalling the whirlwind with a wreath who literally stole my breath when she barreled into me.
I’m not superstitious, but I know the signs when they hit me.A woman named Angel, who smells like cinnamon and laughs like it’s second nature.Silky blonde hair, velvet brown eyes, and those lush, ridiculous curves pressed full against me—soft in all the right places, warm enough to scorch.I could feel the shape of her thighs even through those damn leggings.And when I touched her ankle?She gasped like I’d found a sensitive place.My fingers are still twitching to test the theory, and the part of my anatomy that’s been dormant for too damn long stirs like a hungry beast.
I make it half a block before I turn around and cross back toMistletoe Mug, cupping my hand around the window like I need proof she’s real.
Angel sits on a stool behind the counter, ankle wrapped, head tipped toward that kid helper of hers—Jamie?—who’s concentrating hard on the milk steamer like it’s a bomb that might go off.The shop glows warm and golden, all twinkle lights and fogged windows.
Angel laughs at something Jamie says, the kind of laugh that starts in her eyes and lands in my chest, loosening the clenched fist that’s been lodged there for years.
I don’t go in.Too much, too soon.I’m already fighting the impulse to barricade her doors and hang a sign: NO LADDERS WITHOUT GRADY.
I turn away and head for theranch before I break my own rule and go back inside.
The gate’s half-wrapped in garland, same as it is every December.Snow stacks soft on the top rail, the air sharp with woodsmoke and pine.
Christopher is by the fence line of the Christmas tree lot, his gloves tucked in his back pocket.“Glad you’re here, son,” he says when I reach him.“The old caretaker’s place is all set up for you.”
“Not the bunkhouse?”
He smiles.“Mary seemed to think you’d want some privacy.”
I nod, glancing toward the north pasture.The small cabin sits out there where the trees thin, solid and quiet, exactly the way I remember it.It’s been years since I passed through, but the sight still hits me somewhere I thought had hardened too much for sentimentality.Too many winters have come and gone since I last called this stretch of land home.
“How’s Angel?”
“She’s all right,” I tell him.“Twisted her ankle, but it’s minor.I got her back to the coffee shop.”
His mouth tips in what passes for a smile.“You always were good at catching people on their way down.”
“I think that honor goes to you and Mary,” I say, remembering how they caught me on my way down—twelve years old, scared, and half-feral.They took me in when no one else wanted to look twice.
Before Christopher can answer, Mary barrels out the front door in her wool coat with half a dozen pine needles clinging to the hem.She stops right in front of me, hands on her hips.“Is she resting?”
“Ankle’s wrapped.She’s fine.”
“Good,” she says, satisfied for all of a breath.Then she narrows her eyes.“You tell her I expect her back on both feet by Christmas Eve.And you”—she pokes my chest with a mittened finger—“don’t go disappearing again.I just got you back.”
“I wasn’t planning to stay?—”
“Then plan better,” she cuts in briskly.“The cabin’s warm.I’ll expect you for supper at six.You can argue with me after dessert.”
I should push back.I don’t.Because how the hell do you say no to the two people who’ve been more like parents than the ones you were born with?
