Page 7 of Her Grumpy Cowboy
Behind the counter, Jamie moves fast, calling out drink orders with the confidence that only comes from trial by espresso machine.And there’s Angel—seated on a stool at the register, foot propped up, hair loose around her shoulders.She looks up, surprise flickering across her face before her mouth curves into something that feels like liquid sunshine.
“Morning, Grady,” she greets.
Hearing my name on her lips makes my cock jerk behind my fly.
“Morning, Angel,” I answer gruffly, thinking that’s exactly what she looks like—an angel—with her blonde hair haloing her rosy cheeks.“Got something for you.”
Her eyes drop to the small spruce in my arms.“Mary?”
“Mary,” I confirm.“Said you needed a tree for your apartment.”
“She’s relentless.”
“She’s Mary,” I say simply, setting the tree down near the counter.
Angel’s laugh is light, bright, and warm enough to thaw something in me I hadn’t realized was still frozen.
“Jamie,” she calls over her shoulder, “can you hold down the fort while we get this upstairs?”
Jamie’s grin is instant.“Sure thing, boss.Don’t let him drop it.”
I snort.“Not planning to.”
Angel gives me a pointed look.“It’s not that heavy.”
“Still not letting you carry it,” I say matter-of-factly, already reaching for the trunk.
The stairs creak as I haul the little spruce up to her apartment.The space is cozy, with a sofa, tiny kitchen, and bed tucked under a sloped ceiling.Mismatched mugs drying by the sink, a half-finished wreath on the table.It smells like vanilla, coffee, and her.It’s all warmth and life, the opposite of the places I’ve been.
“Where do you want it?”I ask.
“By the window is perfect.”
When I set the tree by the window, it somehow looks like it’s meant to be there, like this small, cozy world belongs to her.
She hobbles closer, careful on her wrapped ankle.
I frown.“You shouldn’t be on that yet.”
She shrugs.“I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh.Sit.”My tone leaves no room for argument.
“Grady—”
I point to the sofa.“Sit, Angel.”
She rolls her eyes but obeys, lowering herself onto the cushion with exaggerated care.I kneel in front of her, loosening the wrap on her ankle before she can protest.
“You don’t have to?—”
“I know,” I say quietly.“Let me see.”
Her skin is smooth and warm against my callused fingers as I carefully test the joint.She tenses, then forces herself to breathe.
“Still sore?”
“A little,” she admits.“But it’s better.”
