Page 2 of An Angel for the Cowboy
I'm home.
The thought comes unbidden, and I push it away. We signed a one-year cohabitation agreement, living as husband and wife. I don’t know if after the year ends Chance and his daughter will want me permanently in their lives.
A door opens—the barn, not the house—and my breath catches.
Chance McCord walks out leading a massive black horse, and I forget how to breathe. He's tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders and a muscled frame that speaks of years of hard labor. His short brown hair is dusty, and there's dirt on his jeans and the flannel shirt stretched across his chest. He looks exactly like his photo and nothing like it at the same time.
Because the photo didn't capture the way he moves confidently, unhurried, like he's part of the land itself. It didn't show the sharp line of his jaw or the way his gray eyes go wide when he spots me.
He freezes. Completely still except for the horse shifting beside him.
And the way he's looking at me.
Heat floods my body. His gaze travels over my face, body, lingering on my hips in a way that makes my skin prickle with awareness. I'm curvier than my photo showed. The jeans I'm wearing hug every inch of me, and I can see the exact moment he notices.
His jaw clenches. Something flashes in his eyes; surprise, yes, but also raw, hungry attraction.
My body responds instantly. With a flush of warmth low in my belly, my pulse kicked up. I have never felt this kind of immediate, visceral pull to anyone.
This is the man I'm supposed to marry. This stranger who's looking at me like I'm water and he's been lost in the desert.
He blinks and seems to shake himself. "Can I help you?"
His voice is deep and rough, and it does things to me it shouldn't. I force myself to move, to close the distance between us with as much confidence as I can muster.
"I'm Anita. Anita Sanchez." I stick out my hand, aware of how formal it seems. "From the matchmaking agency?"
His brow furrows. "Matchmaking agency?"
Oh no.
"Blossom Ford Matchmaking Agency?" I try again. "We've been matched. I'm here for the cohabitation relationship."
He stares at me as if I've grown a second head. "I never signed up with a dating agency."
My stomach drops. "But you did. You signed the contract. Three days ago." I fumble in my coat pocket, pulling out thefolded papers. "Look, this is your signature, isn't it? We agreed I would come this week."
He takes the papers, and I watch his face as he reads. Confusion, then recognition, then something that looks almost like dread.
"This is my signature," he says slowly. "But I don't remember signing this."
"You don’t remember?" My voice cracks. I traveled all this way. Left my entire life behind. "How do you not remember signing a cohabitation agreement? It’s almost the same as a common-law marriage."
"I don't know." He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up. It makes him look younger, vulnerable. "I've been signing a lot of papers lately. The ranch, my daughter’s school forms."
A school bus rumbles up the driveway, and we both turn to watch it. The door opens, and a teenage girl bounds off, her dark hair in a ponytail. I recognize her from the photos on Chance’s profile. It’s his daughter Mel. She's all long legs and bright energy until she sees me standing there with Chance.
She stops. Her eyes widen, and guilt washes over her face so clearly, I can read it from here.
"Mel," Chance says, his voice tight. "Do you know anything about this?"
Mel lifts her chin, and I see the determination beneath the guilt. "Dad, this is Ms. Anita. I told you about her. She’s a secretary. And I signed you up with the Blossom Ford Matchmaking Agency online service. I got you to sign the contract."
"You what?"
"Remember those school trip forms I had you sign? I put one paper under another, and when you moved the top one, you signed on the signature line on the bottom paper. Thatwas the cohabitation agreement." She trails off, looking at me pleadingly. "I'm sorry. But you kept staring at Ms. Anita’s picture. For three whole days, every time we had breakfast or dinner, your eyes would go to her photo on the fridge. I knew you liked her."
Chance's face pales, then goes red. I can see him struggling with anger and heartbreak and a dozen other emotions. "Mel, you told me the young women in the pictures were professionals the careers advisor told your class about. You said having the photos at home helped you think about what you want to be in the future."
