Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 21744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 109(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 109(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
I grab two glasses, fill them with wine, and hand her one. Our fingers brush. Electricity.
“To new beginnings,” I say, feeling like a dork but meaning every word.
She lifts her glass. “To dessert.”
We drink, and the world narrows to this moment—the heat, the anticipation, the promise of what comes after.
I want her. But more than that, I want every minute that leads up to her.
She follows me out onto the patio, and I fire up the grill. As the flames catch, I glance back and see her watching me, lips curved in a sly half-smile.
Out back, the patio is already humming with the sound of cicadas and the metallic clink of the grill heating up. It’s Saturday, so the ranch hands are all at the bunkhouse, and we’re the only ones anywhere near the main ranch house.
The sun’s on its way down, sky going streaked and wild with every shade of orange and hot pink. Sierra wanders across the patio, wine glass in hand, and for a second, she just stands there, taking it all in.
She moves to the railing, leans back against it, all confidence and curves, and the setting sun wraps her up like something out of a fever dream.
As I slap the steaks on the grill, the sizzle fills the air around us. I can’t help myself. I stare at her while I should be watching our steaks.
She turns, catches me mid-ogling, and grins. “You’re going to burn those if you keep eyeballing me like that.”
I smirk. “I’m the king of multi-tasking.”
She sets her glass on the railing, crosses her arms, and gives me a look. “Tell me about yourself.”
I don’t even hesitate. “Fourth generation on the ranch,” I say, tongs in hand, and for some reason, I don’t sound nearly as awkward as I expect. “My family’s owned this land since before Texas had real roads.” I pop the lid off the grill, letting the sizzle fill the gap while I try to get my mouth to cooperate.
She shifts her hip against the railing, and I catch her watching me, head cocked, like she’s taking in every word. It does weird things to my insides.
“I grew up on the ranch knowing one day I’d take it over.” I clamp down on the memory, shove it behind my teeth, but her eyes are warm and wide and inviting, so I keep going. “Dad died ten years ago of a heart attack.” My voice comes out calm, but it definitely wasn’t at the time. “After that, I took over.”
She doesn’t say sorry or make the face most people make when you mention dead parents. She just listens, like she knows what it’s like to hold a story that heavy.
“I keep the ranch running. Forty-thousand acres. Livestock, people, broken fences, you name it. Sometimes I don’t sleep for days, just trying to keep up.” I force a little shrug. “Not complaining. It’s a great fucking life.”
She sips her wine, eyes never leaving mine. “You ever just relax? Or are you always on high alert?”
I think about lying. I really do. But something in her eyes just bulldozes my instincts to bullshit. “I’m better at working than relaxing. Always have been.”
She laughs. “Maybe we can change that a little.”
The way she looks at me makes me want to puff up like a damn rooster. Her eyes travel from my face down to my boots, pausing at my rolled sleeves where they stretch across my forearms. She lingers on my chest where my shirt pulls tight, and I swallow hard. I force myself to focus on the steaks, spooning herbed butter over the sizzling meat while pretending I’m not about to throw her over my shoulder and head for my bedroom.
She tips her head. “What about fun? What do you do for fun around here?”
I crack a smile. “You’re looking at it. Grilling, beer, maybe a movie if I’m feeling fancy.”
She rolls her eyes. “You need better hobbies.”
“Yeah?” I arch a brow. “You volunteering to teach me?”
She closes the gap between us, takes the tongs out of my hand, and bumps my hip with hers. “Step aside, Hawke. I’m pretty sure you’re overcooking those.”
I let her, half-amused and half ready to see how she handles the steaks. Her body is right up against mine, the warmth of her radiating through those black pants and that soft pink shirt. She pokes at the steaks, makes a show of sniffing them, then leans back and gives me a look.
“They’re almost done,” she concedes, winking at me.
We stand there, face to face, and I can’t help myself. I reach out, brush a wild curl off her cheek, let my hand linger there. She leans into the touch, not shying away, and suddenly, the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Just her and me, the sunset, the smoke from the grill, and the faint music of a hundred crickets going berserk in the grass.