“Now you,” he says.
I try.
Nothing happens.
Knox watches my hands for a beat, then says, “You’re thinking too hard.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” he says. “You’re treating it like a spreadsheet.”
I glare. “I do not treat things like spreadsheets. I don’t even like spreadsheets.”
He looks straight at me. “Darlin’, you told me yesterday you like stories and choices and marketing campaigns. That’s a polite way of saying you like control.”
My face heats. “I do not.”
He leans closer, voice lower. “You do.”
The cow shifts. I flinch like it’s going to kick me into another dimension.
Knox’s hand comes up, not touching me, just hovering at my back. A silent steadying presence.
“Relax,” he murmurs. “She’s calm. You’re the one acting like you’re about to defuse a bomb.”
“I have defused a bomb,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
His brow arches. “You have not.”
“Emotionally,” I clarify.
His mouth twitches. “That I believe.”
He guides my hands again, this time closer, and finally the milk hits the bucket with a soft, embarrassing sound.
I freeze. “Oh my God.”
Knox’s voice is pure satisfaction. “There you go.”
I do it again. And again.
I’m absurdly proud of myself for something I will never put on my resume.
After a few minutes, my arms start to ache. Knox takes over without comment, like it’s nothing. Like this is just another way he keeps the world from falling apart.
I watch him work, then realize I’m watching him like a fool.
I clear my throat. “So this is your life.”
He glances at me. “Part of it.”
“And the other part is… bodyguard.”
“Cowboy bodyguard,” he corrects, like it matters.
I roll my eyes. “That is not a real category.”
He looks offended on purpose. “It’s absolutely a category.”
