“You remember that?”
Her gaze lifts to mine. “I used to sneak out of my room at night for Oreos. Thought if I stepped too hard, you’d come out and bark at me.”
I almost smile. “I probably would’ve.”
She huffs a dry laugh, but there’s no real humor in it. Only nerves.
“You’ve got a good memory,” I say.
“I try not to.” She shrugs. “I didn’t exactly feel welcome here.”
I lean back against the counter, arms folded, aware of how it makes my chest and biceps flex. “Wasn’t your fault.”
“No. But that didn’t stop it from feeling like it was.”
She looks away, and for a beat, neither of us speaks.
I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and toss it to her. She catches it one-handed, barely, and opens it with shaky fingers. She takes a long gulp, draining half the bottle. “Thanks.”
“Didn’t think I’d see you again.”
“I didn’t think I’d everneedto come back.” She exhales and shifts her weight, uncomfortable. “Life doesn’t always go to plan.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
She nods, eyes flicking to the window, then back to me. “The ad said live-in. I figured I could work in exchange for room and board and a little extra. Just for a while.”
“And the kid?”
She goes still, like she didn’t expect me to know. Then: “Staying with a friend. For now. But he comes with me.”
I nod slowly. “You everworkedon a ranch before?” She might have lived here once, but she didn’t lift a finger outdoors.
“No. But I can clean. Cook. I’m a fast learner.”
Her voice trembles, but her chin’s high. Still proud.
“Any experience with livestock?”
“No.”
“What can you cook?”
“Whatever you want. My momma taught me the basics, but I follow recipes. I bake.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Cookies. Cakes. Fresh bread. All the things a cowboy needs to keep going.”
I raise a brow. “I need a lot of fuel.”
She nods, her gaze sweeping over my body, assessing, and damn, my dick perks up in response.
Down boy, is my first thought, but I dismiss it. This woman used to be something to me, but she isn’t anymore. My dad’s dead. Her momma? Not sure. We’re nothing more to each other than people with a little shared history. Uncomfortable history.
“There are three other men on this ranch. And we bring in other workers when we need them,” I say.
“I can handle it.”
