“I’ll let you two figure it out; I’m going to see Snickerdoodle!” Sierra announces before turning on her heel and speed-walking toward the doors leading to the paddock.
“First of all…” I step toward Miranda, slowly backing her against the wall. “Old man?”
Her full lips tug into a smile that causes my chest to constrict. I’m not sure I’ve seen her smile like this since before Silver Fox Ranch. Faint dimples appear, and her hazel eyes twinkle as she looks up at me. Finally losing the battle, I reach out and tuck some stray strands behind her ear. I work hard to ignore her stuttered breath when my fingers brush against her skin.
Fuck.My mind immediately begins to replay our night together, and the sounds she made while I was buried inside her. She sounded so damn sweet, my dick hardens just from the flash of memories. Briefly closing my eyes, I force the images away.
She giggles. “I’m sorry, it just kind of slipped out. I shouldn’t have said that in front of Sierra.”
“Sierra is sixteen, not six. Do you really consider me old?” My tone lowers as I ask, and I don’t miss the way her cheeks flush.
“Not in a bad way. I think you’re the perfect age.”
I step closer still, until I feel the heat from her body. “Perfect for what?”
She swallows hard and moistens her lips with her tongue. “Perfect for…everything. Are you going to cook dinner for us in my kitchen? I actually went grocery shopping before my parents left.”
Allowing her subject change to slide, I step into the last stall and get to work. Miranda is right behind me. She picks up one of the shovels, also getting to work, and it isn’t long before we have the last one clean.
“Follow me, cowboy,” she says, leading the way out of the stables and toward her house. “I can’t wait to see what you can do. I don’t have any ramen or canned ravioli, you know. So good luck.”
Chapter 24
Miranda
How the hell did I get here? When I woke up this morning, having Hayden cook me dinner was not on the agenda. I peer at him as he scrubs his hands clean in my bathroom’s deep farmhouse sink. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing the corded muscles and veins of his forearms, and I can’t look away. His eyes are on me as he walks out of the bathroom and passes me on his way to the kitchen.
Pointing awkwardly toward the bathroom, I step inside and wash my own hands, hoping on everything that it just looked like I was waiting for the sink. The warm water feels good, and I spend longer than necessary, using the time to calm my nerves. Hayden is in my house and getting ready to cook. In my kitchen.
When I join him, he’s already got items on the counter and is rummaging through my cabinets, likely looking for pots and pans. Instead of helping, I lean against the counter, fold myarms, and watch him with a lopsided grin on my face. I might as well enjoy the view while I have it.
“Looking for something in particular?”
“Pots and pans,” he says over his shoulder.
Without moving from my spot, I point at the pantry door. “Hanging on the wall in there or on the shelf just below. Plus, there’s more food in there, too, if that helps.”
I finally take a moment to look at the items he has sitting on the counter. Chicken breast. Fettuccini noodles. Butter. Cream. Garlic. He walks out carrying two pots and a container of parmesan cheese tucked under his arm.
“What are you making?” I demand.
The smile he flashes at me should be illegal. I feel it everywhere. It’s just a smile but combine that with the fact he’s in my kitchen, and I feel it all sorts of places.
“Chicken alfredo.”
Swallowing hard, I try to keep my mind from drifting tothatnight. When he revealed that he remembered everything about me. He remembers the first time we met, and even what my favorite food and ice cream are. And now he’s about to cook my favorite meal. For me.
“You know how to make that?” My words comes out in a low rasp before I once again swallow hard.
“Yup. Your mom’s recipe.”
And then he turns his back and gets started, leaving me to watch him work. He carefully prepares the chicken before mixing the sauce and combining the ingredients. Chicken alfredo isn’t difficult to make, but I’m picky and prefer my mom’s to any restaurant. I try not to dwell on the possible reasons behind his knowing how to cook my exact favorite meal.
When he sets a pot of water on the largest burner and sets it to high, I give him a smug smile. No broccoli. He raises one eyebrow before stalking closer and then stopping in front of me. Even in my kitchen, he’s all cowboy charm, and it pisses me off that all I can think about is having his mouth on mine again.
“What’s that smug look about?” he asks with his brow quirked.
“Oh, nothing. Just watching you dominate in my kitchen.” My voice drips sarcasm even as I smile sweetly at him.
