Page 16 of Her Grumpy Cowboy
I sit on the counter with my ankle propped up and watch this big, serious man make French toast like he belongs here.His forearms flex just enough to make my thighs press together instinctively.There’s something alluring about watching him do something so gentle with hands that look like they’ve broken things.I want those hands on me.I want them everywhere.
He plates me the first slice and sets it in front of me.I moan and close my eyes when I bite into it.
“Don’t,” he says roughly.“Unless you want me to put you on that counter and kiss you stupid.”
The air between us zings.My body answersyesbefore my brain can weigh in.“I like counters.”
He goes still.A muscle flickers in his jaw.“Not tonight.Your ankle’s not healed.”
We eat at my tiny table, knees bumping, steam fogging up the windows.Conversation comes easy—small things with meaning underneath.He asks aboutMistletoe Mug.I tell him about the tourists who cry because the place smells like their grandmother’s kitchen.
After dinner, he washes the dishes without being asked.I limp around drying things, pretending to help.The power flickers, steadies, flickers again.We both look up.
“You’ve got heat and blankets.You’ll be okay if it goes,” he says, checking the stove.
“I have a battery candle that thinks it’s a real candle.”
“Imposter syndrome,” he deadpans, drying his hands.
I laugh.Then, before I can stop myself, I blurt, “Stay.On the couch.I have a white noise machine that helps me sleep.We can pretend the tree lights are a fireplace.I can read you my inventory spreadsheet in a soothing voice.”
His eyes soften.“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He nods.Doesn’t take over, just helps—adjusts the couch so the tree glow hits right, folds the blanket, turns on the little white-noise machine I keep by the door.I duck into the bedroom to change into my pajamas, and when I return, he’s standing by the window, gazing outside like he’s doing battle with a ghost only he can see.He’s removed his flannel and the shirt under it and is down to a white T-shirt that clings to his broad chest like it was sewn directly onto him.I stare at his defined biceps and sinewy forearms, trying to keep my tongue inside my mouth because it’s suddenly decided it wants to lick him all over.
He turns.He waits.He stands there, his gray eyes on me as if he’s letting me decide.
“Come lie down,” I say, settling sideways and patting the space between my bent knees and my chest.“Back against me.I want to be the big spoon.”
He looks like he misheard.“You want to?—”
“Shhh.I’m great at this.”Honestly, I wouldn’t know if I’m great at this, having never slept with a man before, but I remember him telling me he doesn’t sleep well, and I’m feeling protective.
He lets out a breath that might be a laugh and lies down.I settle in behind him, my arms wrapping around his middle, his solid weight settling into mine—heat and gravity and deeply alive under my palms.The top of his head is under my chin.I can smell cedar and soap and the ghost of smoke that seems baked into his skin.I tuck the blanket over both of us and press my lips to the back of his neck because it’s right there and I am only human.
We stay like that.My fingers find his forearm, and I draw idle shapes on the muscles—tiny circles, lines, even a star.He sighs as if my fingertips have found an off switch hidden under his skin.
“Okay?”I whisper.
His shoulders loosen and his breath leaves in a slow exhale as if he’s set down a weight he forgot he was carrying.“Yeah.Okay.”
Under my hand, his heartbeat slows.The little jerks of a man falling asleep after too many nights not doing that run through him once, twice, and then he goes under, falling into the kind of sleep that only comes when someone finally feels safe.
I hold on.I memorize.The slope of his shoulder.The rasp of his breath.The mouth that has been kind to me in a dozen small ways and hasn’t even kissed me yet.But beingusefulin this tender, ridiculous way fills something empty in me I didn’t admit was there.
My eyes drift closed.
He wakes an hour later, the way people do when they don’t trust the world: eyes first, body second.His hand finds mine at his chest, and he laces our fingers like a reflex.
“Hi,” I whisper.
“Hey.”His voice is sleep-rough.“You good?”
“I’m so good.You sleep.”
He turns toward me slowly until we’re face-to-face, and the world gets smaller and better.He doesn’t kiss me.I don’t kiss him.We hover, suspended between almost and everything.
