Page 39 of Seaside Cowboy's Fairy Tale

She didn’t remove her hands, though his touch affected her deeply. “I know.” And that knowledge should’ve prevented her from being prejudiced about him. Instead, she’d assumed he’d forgotten his humble beginnings fast.

“Mom taught us how to cook, do laundry, and clean up after ourselves from an early age. Fair warning, I was the worst cook in the family. So nobody wanted me on cooking duty. But it’s not difficult to clean. Okay, cleaning stables wasn’t my favorite thing. But I didn’t mind cleaning the house. I kind of liked it because it made me feel useful. I even volunteered for it sometimes.” He squeezed her fingers, pumping a jolt to her heart.

“Thank you for sharing this.” She stared into his eyes and didn’t want to look away. “I never volunteered for cleaning—or cooking and washing dishes, for that matter. I just didn’t have a choice if I wanted to eat and have a roof above my head. Still, no excuse to live like a slob now.” She looked down, hiding behind the hair she let fall on her face.

“You’re not a slob.” He brushed her blonde tresses back, his fingers tender on her skin.

The gesture made her heart expand in her chest. “I kind of am. But I’ll do better.”

“It’s difficult to do things that are traumatic for us.” His voice became soft.

She lifted her head and looked into his blue eyes again. The compassion in them reached into her, unknotting the defenses that helped her stay strong. “I’ll manage.”

“It’s okay to ask for help. You don’t have to do it all alone.” He leaned closer, too close, close enough to give her the whiff of that intoxicating cologne.

“I had to.” Breathing deeply, she disappeared in his baby blues and leaned forward, as well. She wanted more of that touch that made her heart melt, more of this connection between them. Could she harbor butterflies in her stomach and hope in her heart? Be loved and admired and cared for and experience the physical profession of that in the mix of their breaths, in the touch of their fingers, in the brush of their lips.

Spurred by the delirium of her meds—or was it the delirium of her thoughts?—the desire to kiss him became unbearable. The heat in his eyes washed over her, causing heat to pool in the pit of her stomach.

Then Nibbles pranced on her shoulder, her tail slapping Rachel’s neck, bringing her back to her senses. Not entirely, but enough to give her a dose of reality. She wasn’t Cinderella, about to be swept off her feet again, and this charming hero might walk away as soon as he knew the truth.

“You don’t have to do it alone anymore.” He brushed the back of his hand against her cheek, and her whole foolish body responded. “You don’t always have to be strong.”

She wanted to believe it. Oh how much she wanted to believe it. She leaned back, breaking their eye contact, and reached for her glass again. “You need to know something about me, too. You’re not going to like it. We need to talk.”

No! No, they didn’t. Couldn’t she hold back another hour? Day? Week? Why did Cinderella’s clock have to strike midnight with her words?

His eyes narrowed. “Nothing good has ever started with those words.”

Then a knock on the door made her look up.

Chapter Eleven

THE NEXT DAY, TEX STILLcouldn’t stop thinking about whatever Rachel wanted to talk to him about. With the question pulsing through him, he visited his office to attend to the things that demanded his presence, leave instructions for the rest, and put his assistant, Jennifer, in charge, then swung by the pharmacy to pick up more bandages and the painkillers Rachel would surely still refuse to take.

He’d never gotten a chance for that conversation because Kennedy of all people had shown up, visibly upset Rachel hadn’t told her about getting shot and needing help. And that had left him reeling because how did Rachel know his new sister-in-law, as well as his mom and his brothers? Then Ms. Bruzlin arrived and began organizing dinner, both women edging him out of the preparation but not the eating. He’d been grateful. With his cooking skills, he’d have to get takeout, and a home-cooked meal was much better for Rachel.

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