Despite the heat of the day, it’s still got to be frigid.
“What is he doing?” I whisper to myself, chest heavy as I keep watching. His head bobs, and I pull back from the curtain for a second. Then he stands, and my eyes bug out of my head.
A wall of muscle, covered in tattoos across the left side of his chest and down one arm. Water dribbles from his beard, washing over his chest. My eyes descend lower before I pull them away.
“For God’s sake, Eliza. You can’t be peeping on him.”
He turns his back to me now, and I can’t stop myself. Broad shoulders, muscular back. Angry scars peppering his torso. Some round like bullet-hole scars, others great angry puckers that tell a story I can’t read.
His back tapers into a solid waist, thick, rippling thighs, and an ass… An ass I shouldn’t see but won’t soon forget. He scans the house again, and I duck back, mortified at the thought of being caught.
When I have the nerve to crane my head again, his beard’s white with soap and so is his hair. Then, he dives beneath the water, coming up floating on his back. Mouth working, like he’s singing something to himself.
I let the curtain fall, scolding myself. “You’re objectifying your employee, Eliza.”
The accusation doesn’t help. My thoughts are already racing to slippery, soapy flesh pressed against mine. Rock hard and unyielding like the granite teeth of the Starborn Range.
Mama’s advice rushes back over me, wrapped in guilt. Have to stay away from his type. Far away.
But I also need to pay him back in some unknown way. Like a concession for spying on him.
That’s when I head for the top shelf of my bedroom closet, balancing precariously on a stepping stool. In a box worn well past its years, I find my great-great-grandfather’s old straight razor with the ivory-carved handle.
My thumb swipes over the warm, slick white surface engraved with the name Alistair Wakefield. In my bathroom, I find pink shaving cream. More for legs, not beards. It’ll have to do.
At the pantry, I pull out a stack of fluffy pink towels, stacking them outside on the back porch swing where, hopefully, he’ll see them. I leave a white guest robe there, too. The biggest I can find.
Penance for peeping.
When the door swings wide and the big man walks through, a towel wrapped around his waist—just barely—my breath catches in my throat. The tattoos shift over his flesh. Glowing. Moving. I must be losing my mind.
“Robe’s for you, too,” I manage between breaths, averting my eyes.
“Wasn’t sure.” His cheeks darken, but he stands there too long, taking me in.
Finally, when he turns and heads back onto the porch, I let out a huff, realizing I’ve been holding my breath.
The cowboy re-enters, nearly busting out of the fabric. Arms peeking out half a foot beyond each cuff. The bottom hem almost above his knees. I press my hand to my mouth, fighting a giggle.
He frowns, wholly uncomfortable.
I motion him toward a chair set apart in the living room. The tattoos lay buried beneath white. Where they need to stay.
Because what I saw a few moments ago? The glowing?
Like the bull. Like the field. I don’t need to see it ever again.
He scrutinizes me, blue eyes flashing.
“Have a seat,” I invite. “I’ll give you a shave and a cut.”
I’m no hairstylist, let alone a barber. But I’ve cut enough of the ranch hands’ and my dad’s hair over the years to know I can make him look semi-decent. At least presentable.
Don’t need rumors going around that I’m letting my employees look sloppy.
The curtains rustle, a hint of a breeze. But it’s not enough. I cross to the back window and turn on the square fan permanently housed there come summer. I should have a swamp cooler. Just never got around to it.
Kael sits transfixed, turning the antique razor in his hand when I return.
