My fingers sink into his shoulder then, working rock-hard muscles through the thick fabric. Thank God for terrycloth. I don’t know what I’d do if his flesh met mine.
“Relax,” I command, digging my fingers deeper.
He groans, eyes rolling back. Then a second time, softer but longer, almost like a purr.
“So, you like that?”
He doesn’t have to answer, ecstasy written across his face. “You shouldn’t.” But he doesn’t stop me.
“And why shouldn’t I? I need a ranch hand ready to work. That means clean-cut and well-rested.”
“Still gonna sleep in the field tonight,” he murmurs between squeezes of my fingers.
“And ruin everything we’re doing today,” I say, leaning closer, breathing in the smell of pine and charcoal from his soap.
“Only one way to guard a herd, boss.” But the angry edge dissolves as I dig deeper, sinking an elbow into his taut trapezius.
“You really should?—”
“Stop? In a minute. Can you tell I’m trying to entice you into staying?”
He opens one eye, staring up lazily at me. “That how this works?”
“Small town. Everyone knows everyone. And Frank was it for ranch hands available to work… until you showed up.”
“I always ride out, Miss Wakefield?—”
“Eliza.”
He clears his throat, his voice low and grumpy, “Eliza.”
Three syllables. Heat curls low. I squeeze my legs together, trying not to give in to the pulse pounding behind my temples.
I stop massaging, and he stiffens. Like he already misses the attention. But he says nothing.
“Now, for decision time. Straight razor out. Clippers in?” I hold up the shaver with various attachments.
He regards it suspiciously, like it could bite him. “That really necessary?”
“Only if you want a buzzed head or very short hair.”
He eyes the scissors, then me. “Only take off what makes me look like… a hippie. The rest keep. Just don’t touch me.”
Don’t touch me?
“I’ll do my best.”
His gaze snaps to mine. “Thank you kindly, Miss.”
“Still Eliza.”
He growls.
My fingers slide tentatively through his hair, and his eyes close again. Hands fisted in his lap. Like he’s enduring this.
I work carefully with the scissors not to touch his scalp, cheek, neck, though I can still feel his skin’s warmth.
“When’s the last time you had a cut?” I ask softly, fingers dancing carefully, scissors snipping.
