By the time I got downstairs at 5:15, Beau was already in the kitchen making coffee. Of course he was. Because this morning couldn't cut me any breaks.
It was surprising that I only had to wake him up maybe like seven times in the span of three weeks. He adapted faster and easier than we gave him credit for.
He looked up when I walked in, and I watched his gaze travel—quick but deliberate—from my face down to my boots and back up again. His eyes lingered just a second too long on the jeans, and when he met my eyes again, there was this knowing little smirk playing at his lips.
"Morning," he said, voice still rough from sleep. "Coffee?"
"Yeah." I tried to sound normal. Casual. Like I hadn't spent three hours thinking about him last night. "Thanks."
He poured me a cup, and when he handed it over, his fingers brushed mine. Just barely. Probably an accident.
Except the way he was looking at me said it absolutely wasn't an accident.
"Sleep well?" he asked innocently.
"Fine."
"Really? Because you look a little tired." He leaned against the counter, cradling his own mug, and that smirk got a fraction wider. "Anything keeping you up?"
Oh, he wanted to play this game. He didn't know I was quite the good player.
"Just the usual," I said coolly, taking a sip. "Ranch stuff. You know how it is."
"Mm. Ranch stuff." He took a sip of coffee, eyes never leaving mine. "Must've been some pretty intense ranch stuff to have you up at 4:30."
"How do you know when I got up?"
"I heard the shower." He tilted his head. "You always take what I assumed were cold showers at dawn, or was today special?"
My face heated. "That's—how did you—"
"Thin walls. Old house." He pushed off the counter, moving past me toward the door, and as he did, he leaned in just close enough to murmur near my ear, "For what it's worth? Those jeans are worth losing sleep over."
Then he was gone, heading out to start morning chores, leaving me standing in the kitchen with my face on fire and my coffee forgotten.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
This was going to be a very long day.
Morning chores were torture.
Beau didn't do anything obvious—he wasn't inappropriate or over the line. But he was... present. Aware. Every time we passed each other in the barn, I felt his eyes tracking me. When we worked side by side mucking stalls, he’d lean in under the pretense of asking a question, his breath warm against my ear.
"How's this look?"
"Need help with that gate?"
"You're real good at this, you know. Teaching me."
That last one, whispered while I was bent over checking Daisy's hoof, nearly made me drop the damn horse.
"I'm just doing my job," I managed, straightening up.
"You're doing it very well." He stood, and I could feel him standing too close behind me. Not touching, but close enough that my entire back tingled with awareness. "I appreciate it. All of it."
"Beau—"
"Winnie?"
