Her laugh is soft. Caught somewhere between embarrassed and amused. The real kind. The kind that sneaks up on you.
“You don’t have to clean my shoes, you know?” she says, twisting a strand of hair around her finger.
“Yes, ma’am, I do,” I shoot back, squinting up at her with that grin I know she’s secretly obsessed with. “Can’t have you trackin’ that smell into the house. Jasper might make us eat Thanksgiving dinner outside.”
She snorts. “Or you’re just obsessed with feet. My feet. The horses feet. The cows.”
That earns a huff of laughter as I stand in front of her before tapping her nose. “Clever girl.”
“Tell me about it,” she says. “Being a farrier.”
And hell… I light up a little like I always do whenever I get to talk about my job.
“I trim hooves,” I explain, hands starting to move without me thinking about it. “Nail on horseshoes. Balance their feet so they don’t go lame workin’ cattle all day. Gotta keep ‘em sound or they can’t do their job. We rely on them as much as they rely on us.” I shrug. “Takes patience.So much fucking patience. Strong legs. A good back.” And because I can’t help myself, “And a natural charm so the horses don’t kick me in the balls. Or my head. But that part comes pretty easy.”
I shoot her a wink, and she laughs—really laughs this time—and it hits me right in the chest. It’s slowly becoming my favorite sound, especially when I’m the one who made her do it. Because she sounds free, like she’s forgetting whatever pain she came here with, at least for a second.
I’m getting attached. I know it.
I didn’t mean to.
Didn’t plan on it.
Didn’t ask for it.
But damn if it ain’t happening anyway.
Chapter twenty-one
Lawson
thanksgiving day
Istandatthesinkwith my sleeves rolled up, hot water running over my hands as I scrub the last of the roasting pans. Grease, seasoning, the smell of turkey still hangs heavy in the air. It should be muscle memory by now, but my eyes keep drifting away from the dishes.
To her.
Abigail stands beside me, drying plates, humming what sounds like Christmas music under her breath. The sound is soft. Distracting. Addicting.
She looks… so damn happy.
Not the careful kind. Not the forced kind either. It’s real. There’s color in her cheeks now, warmth in her eyes. She stands in a room like she belongs there, instead of like she’s waiting for the floor to swallow her whole. And for some reason that puts a fist around something in my chest, I’ve been trying not to think too hard about.
“You did good today,” I say quietly, forcing my stare back into the sink.
She bumps her hip gently against mine. “You and Beau cooked most of the meal.”
“And you cooked the rest,” I murmur back.
She smiles, small and warm. The kind of smile that isn’t trying to impress, it just… is.
“Thank you for letting me be part of this,” she says.
I dry my hands on a towel and lean back against the counter, turning toward her. “Youarepart of it,” I tell her.
Her breath catches. Just enough for me to notice. Just enough to feel it settle between us. It feels quiet, fragile, electric.
Dangerous.
