Kyla lay there anyway, eyes open in the dark, carrying the aftermath with her because she didn’t know how to put it down.And somewhere in the space between anger and want, she understood one thing with a clarity she couldn’t argue with.
If he stepped into that dark again and reached for her, she wasn’t sure she would stop him.
Chapter 6
Early June
Titus nudged open theheavy back door and stepped into warmth thick with garlic, onions, and butter pushed one breath too far on the stove.The crate of steaks dug into his shoulder, but the ache barely registered once he spotted Kyla cutting across the kitchen with her hair twisted up and her mouth set firm.He stopped just inside, not ready to call her name, not certain his voice would come out right if he tried.
He shifted the crate to his other arm.The handle had already worked a sting into his palm.The useful kind that came from carrying something needed.In the dining room, chairs scraped and somebody laughed too loudly, not because anything was funny, but because he wanted everyone close to hear him.
Mason jar candles burned low along the tables.Light broke in the bowls of wineglasses and skipped across faces Titus did not know.
Kyla stood out before his eyes fully adjusted.Black jeans that did nothing to soften the strength in her legs.A white chef coat buttoned high like armor.Shoulders shaped by years of lifting stockpots and hauling more than her frame had ever promised.
She caught a wobbling water glass before it tipped, wiped the pass-through with the back of her hand, then moved again with her lips shaping silent numbers.Every motion came clipped and clean.No wasted turns.No wasted reach.Nobody else in that kitchen took up so much room without speaking.
Titus lowered the ribeyes to the far end of the counter, fingers spread wide so the crate would not bang against the steel.This deep in the kitchen, the dining room dulled to a low layer behind the scrape of pans and the hiss off the range.
When Kyla passed close, vanilla cut through smoke and sweat.Lotion, maybe.Soap.Something softer than the room around her.
A line of knives waited in order on the prep station, bright from fresh steel.Herbs dusted the rim of a mixing bowl.Titus rolled his sleeves higher and dragged his hands down his thighs.Sweat tickled at the base of his neck.
Work kept his head pointed straight.Work kept it off the mortgage, the feed bill, and the question of whether Kyla would let him stay in her orbit if all he brought to her was a strong back and willing hands.
She glanced over.Quick.Measuring.Her brows lifted in a look that told him to either move something useful or get out of her lane.He met it for half a beat, then bent over the crate and peeled back the butcher paper.Thick ribeyes lay there, marbled and dark and costly enough to matter.
“Top right,” Kyla said.“I’ll cut.”
No thanks.No extra word.For some reason, that steadied him.It meant she had already made room for him in the rhythm of the night.
He lined trays along the prep counter and cleared the path she would need in the next hour.Space to turn.Space to reach oil without catching his elbow.Space to move fast when the room outside wanted feeding all at once.Through the swinging door came chatter, forks striking china, glass touching the side of a carafe.
Titus kept his attention on the safe parts of the kitchen.Steel.Tile.Stove light.No one in Big Timber would say it plain, but this night mattered.City writers, Denver money, old ranchers hungry for a story they could repeat at breakfast.If they liked what Kyla had built, tonight would linger longer than the receipts.
Her sleeves were rolled high enough for him to see the old burn scar below her elbow.He had noticed it before, but never this close.The mark sat there without apology, ugly in the best way, proof that she had earned everything people said about her.Her knife moved through the first steak, trimming fat with a confidence so deep it made everything around her look clumsy.
