"Then I'll file my complaint tonight.” Her gaze slid over my body slow enough that I could practically feel it. “In detail,” she added, “Might take a while."
Lord, have mercy.
She disappeared to find actual clothes, returning in denim cutoffs that should've been illegal and a tank top that had seen better days but clung to her in ways that made thinking difficult. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and she'd stolen my work hat, which sat crooked on her head.
"Ready to work, boss?" she asked, doing a little spin that made those shorts ride up.
“I knew it. You are trying to kill me."
"If I wanted to kill you, I'd wear the white shorts. You know, the ones from?—"
"We're not talking about the white shorts while I need to function."
She laughed, bright and free, and headed out into the morning. The sun was just starting to warm things up, that golden hour when Texas was all soft edges and honey-colored light. The air smelled like grass and possibility, with just a hint of the rain that had passed through last night.
"What's first?" Stephy asked, grabbing work gloves from the barn. They were too big for her—mine, actually—but she'd claimed them weeks ago.
"Feed and water. Then we need to check the fence line in the south pasture. Storm might've knocked some posts loose."
"Aye, aye, Ranger." She gave me a mock salute that turned into her adjusting the hat so she could actually see. "Lead the way."
We fell into the rhythm of ranch work, moving around each other like we'd been doing this for years instead of weeks. She knew to duck when I swung hay bales down from the loft, muscles straining with the weight, sweat already starting despitethe early hour. I knew to steady the water trough when she turned the hose on full blast, water spraying everywhere, when she got distracted by one of the barn cats.
"Your rooster is judging me," she announced about an hour in, eyeing Caesar, where he strutted along the fence like he owned the place. "He's got opinions about my hay-spreading technique."
"Caesar has opinions about everything."
"Well, Caesar can kiss my—" She bent over to grab another hay flake, and my brain completely short-circuited.
Those shorts. That position. The way the morning sun hit her skin, turning it gold, highlighting the curve of her back, the length of her legs. Christ almighty.
She must have felt me staring because she looked over her shoulder, still bent over, and grinned. "See something you like?"
"Just...checking your form."
"My form?" She straightened slowly, deliberately, making a show of it, hands sliding up her thighs as she stood. "How's my form, Lee?"
I shifted on my feet, hoping she couldn’t see how hard I was. “Needs work."
“Oh yeah?” She spun on her heel. “Maybe you should show me." She moved closer to grab the pitchfork I was holding. Heat rushed through my veins when her hand covered mine on the handle. She was close enough that I could smell her—citrusy shampoo, sunscreen, and that particular scent that was just Stephy. "Hands-on instruction, you know?”
A shaky breath slid past my lips. “You're gonna be the death of me."
“But what a way to go.” She echoed her own words from days ago, flashed me a grin that should be illegal in seven states, and then danced away, that perfect ass of hers swaying.
The morning continued like that—her being playful and relaxed in a way I hadn’t seen since I couldn’t remember when.
And me?
I walked around with a hard-on like a teenager discovering boobs for the first time.
She’d bump my hip when passing, pretending it was accidental. Or let her fingers trail across my lower back every time she walked behind me, like she knew exactly what that did to me. Or tug on my belt loop to get my attention instead of using words like a normal human being—her fingers hooking into my jeans, tugging me back into her space. And her chest would brush against my arm like she didn’t know I was one breath away from losing every ounce of self-control I possessed.
And worst of all?
Every time she touched me—every damn time—my body reacted like I was fifteen again, hopelessly gone for the girl next door who didn’t even know she had me on my knees.
By noon, I’d had to adjust my jeans so many times I was one more accidental brush away from swearing Devon Ford’s patented Oath of Sainted Cowboy Celibacy—because the way Stephy was moving through this barn?
