Now, I know what you’re thinking. Walker? Our Walker? The man who’s been married to that ranch and fawning over his daughter for the past decade? The tall, broody, cinnamon roll of a man in a cowboy hat. The one who hasn’t so much as glanced at a woman since the day Lucy’s mama high-tailed it out of here?
Ding-ding, that’s the one. I hear he practically carried her through that storm himself. But what could’ve happened next?
Maybe he got her settled in his guest room. Maybe little Lucy chatted her ear off about cookies and Christmas trees. It could’ve been very domestic for a woman who makes her living tearing apart marriages. But maybe it was something a little more steamy. Lord knows you could cut their tension with a knife.
Eliza dear, if you’re listening, a little advice… You should tread lightly with our boy. Walker Reed ain’t no one-night rodeo. He didn’t give up on this town when things got hard. He stayed at the ranch. He showed up. He made pancakes and hung Christmas lights. We helped him raise that little girl likeshe hung the moon. We aren’t about to watch some out-of-state divorce queen trample his heart.
And Walker, if you’re listening, it’s about time. We didn’t know you were looking. We all but gave up on you. Now that I know you’re on the market, I’ll talk to the ladies at church. They’ll send their daughters your way. Just say the word.
The storm’s supposed to pass by morning. But something tells me the fallout from it is just getting started. Keep your hands clean and your ears open, Sagebrush Creek. I have a feeling this Christmas is about to get very interesting.
Until next time, our boots are on the ground, and our eyes are on Eliza Kingridge. We won’t miss a minute.
7
walker
I don't sleep worth a damn.
The storm rages outside. It rattles the windows and howls through the eaves. But that's not what's keeping me awake. I've slept through worse. Hell, I've slept through Lucy's colicky screaming when she was a baby, through tornado warnings, and Texas hail the size of golf balls.
What's keeping me awake is the woman down the hall. Eliza Kingridge, California attorney.
On her, the Kingridge name isn’t country at all. It’s expensive, sharp, and polished… just like the rest of her. She's probably lying in my guest bed right now with her silky hair spread across the pillow, wondering how the hell she ended up in a place like this.
I stare at the ceiling and try not to think about what she looks like under that designer blouse. Try not to remember the way her fingers trembled when they brushed mine at dinner. The way her eyes went soft when she watched Lucy ramble about cookies and chickens.
Mine.
The word echoes through me again, just like it did when I first saw her step out of that SUV. It's ridiculous. Primal. Thekind of caveman bullshit I thought I'd outgrown somewhere around my thirtieth birthday.
But my body doesn't give a damn about logic. Not when it comes to Eliza, and it’s driving me crazy.
I throw off the covers and pad to the kitchen. If I'm going to be awake, I might as well make myself useful. I turn on the low under-cabinet lights and click a button on the coffee maker. It gurgles to life. I stand at the window and watch the storm tear across the fields. Trees bend sideways. Rain lashes the glass in sheets. The power flickers once, twice, but then holds.
"You're up early."
The sound of her voice startles me, and I jump. I turn to find Eliza standing in the doorway, and the sight makes my mouth go dry.
She's wearing one of my flannel shirts.
The button-down swallows her whole and hangs past her thighs. The sleeves are rolled up to her elbows. Her hair is loose and mussed from sleep. Her face is scrubbed clean of makeup. And those thick thighs… damn it, those legs go on for miles beneath the hem of my shirt. I blow out a deep breath and try to keep my eyes from roaming.
"I hope you don't mind." She tugs at the flannel. "My shirt was still damp from the rain, and I found this in the bathroom. I can change if?—"
"Don't." The word comes out rougher than I intend it to. I clear my throat. "It's fine. Looks better on you anyway."
Something flickers in her eyes. Heat, or maybe a warning. It’s hard to tell with her.
"Coffee?" I ask, turning back to the machine before I do something stupid like cross the room and find out if her lips are as soft as they look.
"Please. No cream, just bl?—"
"Black. I remember."
I pour two mugs and hand her one. Our fingers brush again, and this time neither of us pulls away. The contact sends electricity shooting up my arm and pooling low in my gut.
"Storm's still going strong," I say, nodding toward the window. "Might be stuck here a while longer."
