“I like to work with my hands.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. I don’t have to look in the mirror to know pink must be flooding my cheeks.
He notices.
Something heated flickers in those seaglass eyes as he says, voice a little huskier, “Almost done here, actually. Just need to seal these last two boards.”
I watch him work for a moment, admiring not just his incredible body but his sure, practiced movements, the way he checks each board for level before securing it.
There’s something really attractive about competence.About a man who can fix things. Who makes sure the job is getting done right.
“Let me buy you lunch,” I blurt out. “As a thank you. For helping Dad out.”
Luke sets down the hammer and reaches for the faded blue henley draped over the porch railing. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to.”
He pulls the shirt over his head, and I can’t fight my disappointment when all that skin disappears. “Alright then,” he says. “But I’m paying.”
“That defeats the whole purpose!”
“Madison.” He says my name like it belongs to him, and it basically does now. “I’m paying.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re sliding into a booth at Tower Deli on Main Street.
I insisted on driving, since that’s apparently the only favor he’ll let me do for him.
Luke’s cleaned up, in a fresh t-shirt he got out of his truck. His cap is still backwards, and he still looks hot as fuck.
“My friend Emily used to be a waitress here,” I tell him, opening the laminated menu even though I have it memorized. “Best waffles in town.”
“That’s what your dad said.”
“Yeah, I bet. These waffles are at least fifty percent to blame for giving him diabetes.”
Luke doesn’t open his menu. He’s watching me instead, and it makes my pulse skip. “He talks about you a lot, you know. Says you’re the only reason the bar’s still running.”
“He exaggerates.”
“I don’t think he does.”
We order—burgers for both of us, Cherry Coke for me, ice water for him—and then it’s just us in the red vinyl booth with sunlight streaming through the window.
“So, business school,” I say, popping the paper off my straw. “Kind of a swerve for a cowboy, no?”
A rueful smile. “So people say. My daddy thinks it’s a waste of time, even if he doesn’t say so. He just says ranching doesn’t need an MBA.”
“But you think different?”
“I don’t know what I think, some days.” He runs his thumb along the condensation on his water glass.
“Maybe that if I’m going to take over the ranch someday, I should actually know how to run it like a business. We’ve been doing things the same way for four generations. Maybe it’s time someone looked at the data, figured out how to make it sustainable for the next generation. I want my kids to not have to struggle to survive. I want them to look forward to taking over, to being stewards of the land.”
Okay. If my ovaries could talk, they’d be shouting,good provider, strong genes. Have this one’s babies.
For once, they’re probably right. Looks like my ovaries have gotten older and wiser too.
When the check comes, Luke snatches it before I can even reach over.
