“Same difference.” I grin.
She rolls her eyes at me, but she can’t hide her smile.
I stroke her cheek with my thumb, unable to help myself. She’s so goddamn pretty. Jesus. I just want to eat her up. I doubt she’s ready to hear that, though. And if she isn’t ready to hear it, she damn sure isn’t ready for me to spread her across the table and feast.
“You want a tour?” I ask, taking a step back before I decide to take my chances and eat her anyway.
“Um, sure.” Her tongue darts across her bottom lip. “I mean, if you have time.”
“I’ve got time.”
She smiles at me, relief blooming in her eyes. “Then yes, please.”
We exit through the kitchen door, heading for the cluster of buildings up the hill from my place. It’d be easier to drive, but the only way to really appreciate a place like this is on foot, the way it was intended.
“Have you always worked on ranches?” she asks as we walk.
“Mostly. Worked on a pot farm once.”
“Seriously?”
I chuckle at the look on her face. “Yep, in Montana. You’d be surprised how many people try to sneak onto a goddamn pot farm.”
“I bet,” she whispers, her eyes wide.
“I spent most of my time chasing people off. Got tired of doing that pretty quickly and decided I’d much rather return to my roots. I was born on a ranch. They feel a lot more like home than the pot farm did.”
“Were you born here or in Montana?”
“Here.” I grin at her. “What about you? What’s your story, Sugar Plum?”
“I grew up in an orphanage,” she murmurs, wrapping her arms around herself like the memory stings. “I got a full ride to Texas A&M, so I went from the orphanage straight to college. This is the first time I’ve ever really been on my own.”
Jesus. No wonder she manages to stumble into trouble without even trying. She’s never been on her own. Poor baby is just doing her best to cobble together the life she never had growing up.
“I didn’t expect a town like this to be so expensive,” she grumbles. “I probably seem hopeless to you.”
I place my hand on her arm, pulling her to a stop. “There’s nothing hopeless about you, Sugar Plum. Everyone has to start somewhere. You think I ended up on a pot farm because I always had my shit together?” I cock a brow at her and then shake my head. “Until I landed here a few years ago, I bounced around a lot, not sure where I fit. Most cowboys do.”
“Well, you landed somewhere beautiful,” she whispers, the sort of longing in her voice that makes a man want to do something crazy. Like drag her into my arms and kiss the breath from her lungs. But I don’t do that. Yet. I don’t want to send her running, not until I’m sure she’ll run right into my arms.
“Come on,” I murmur instead, holding out my hand to her. “Let me show you just how beautiful this place really is.”
She glances down at my hand and then smiles, placing her palm in mine.
“I’m not milking thatcow, Flint Stockton,” she growls an hour later, her hands planted on her hips and fire in her eyes. “No way. It looks like it wants to murder me.”
“Sugar Plum,” I say, laughing, “she does not look like she wants to murder you.”
“Does too,” she sniffs, her chin in the air the same way it was at the bar last night. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright. Strands of hair are all wild around her face. Fuck, she’s beautiful.
“Fine,” I relent. “I’ll milk Betsy. But you have to keep me company.”
She eyes me like she thinks I’m up to no good, but I drop down onto the stool, place the bucket below Betsy, and get to work. After a few seconds, Saoirse wanders closer, too curious to maintain a distance.
“See? No murder,” I murmur.
She snorts like she still isn’t convinced.
