Handing the glass back to me, he went right back to work and didn’t stop until I called him inside to eat the sandwich I made for him. Between bites, he scribbled notes about fence posts, barn roof patches, and who-knew-what-else.
I leaned over his shoulder, trying one last time. “I can handle this. You’ve already done more than enough.”
He set the pen down and looked up at me, his steely gaze unyielding. “Jacqueline. Let me do this.”
I exhaled, more flustered than frustrated by his insistence. “Okay.”
I stopped arguing and decided to stick close and offer help wherever I could, handing him tools and steadying ladders. That allowed me to enjoy the play of muscle under his shirt up close and personal.
But as the day passed, my attraction turned into something deeper. He made me feel safe and cherished. Like I wasn’t dealing with taking over my grandfather’s ranch alone anymore.
He listened when I told him more of my plans for the acreage I wanted to use for the rehabilitation facility. His insight was incredibly helpful, offering access to water on property owned by the Black Crowns if I needed it. He also suggested a couple of local veterinarians he could connect me with to help establish a relationship so I could build enough trust to execute the rehabilitation plans they prescribed.
His willingness to help me achieve my dream had my feelings quickly turning into something deeper than simple attraction. And then the man showed me he could do more in the kitchen than kiss me senseless.
That evening, Brogan took over the kitchen without asking. I watched from the doorway as he pulled supplies from the fridgeand pantry that I hadn’t put in there—chicken breasts, fresh vegetables, and herbs.
The sizzle of the skillet filled the air with a savory aroma that made my stomach rumble.
“I thought you said no one should eat what you cook.”
He glanced over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth twitching. “No. Ididn’tsay anyone should eat it.”
I chuckled when I caught his play on words from the night before. “Still, you really didn’t have to do this.”
“You made dinner last night. It’s my turn.”
“Grilled cheese and tomato soup is barely cooking.” Laughing softly, I shook my head. “And from what I can see, you definitely undersold your ability to cook.”
“It’s only pan-seared chicken with vegetables and rice.”
“Only,” I echoed, rolling my eyes. “Right.”
While he finished making dinner, I set the table. Our conversation flowed as easily as it had last night. I told him more about my summers here, and Brogan listened like he had all the time in the world. Then he asked thoughtful questions about the types of horses I wanted to help and how I planned to structure the boarding side.
At one point, he reached across the table and brushed a stray strand of hair behind my ear. The casual touch had warmth pooling in my belly.
After we finished, I stood to clear the plates. Brogan rose too, taking the dishes from my hands and setting them in the sink. The kitchen suddenly felt smaller as he turned to me, his big body backing me slowly against the counter until I had nowhere else to go.
“Brogan,” I whispered, my heart racing.
He cupped my face with both hands, his thumbs stroking my cheeks before he kissed me. His mouth claimed mine, his tongue stroking deep the moment my lips parted on a soft gasp. I meltedagainst him, my fingers fisting in his shirt when one of his hands slid down to palm the curve of my butt.
Feeling his hard length pressed against my belly, a needy sound escaped me. He growled into my mouth and rocked his hips forward, letting me feel exactly how much he wanted me. I kissed him back just as desperately, one leg wrapping around his calf without thinking.
Brogan finally tore his mouth away with a rough growl, his steel-gray eyes dark with need. His voice was strained when he rasped, “Go to bed, baby.”
I blinked up at him, my lips swollen and cheeks flushed. It took me a moment to understand what he said, and then I slipped past him on shaky legs before I suggested we see what happened if he followed me up to my room.
The following morning,sunlight streamed through the kitchen windows as I flipped a second omelet in the pan. Brogan sat at the table, his long legs stretched out as he watched me with quiet intensity that made butterflies swirl in my belly again.
When I slid his plate in front of him, he took a bite and gave a low hum of approval. “These are good.”
I smiled, warmth blooming in my chest. “Don’t sound so surprised. Omelets are almost as easy to make as grilled cheese and tomato soup.”
He shook his head. “Mine always crack in the middle when I plate them.”
“Then you’re overcooking them.” I took a bite of mine and hummed in pleasure. “The trick is for there still to be the thinnest layer of wet egg on the surface of the pan when you gently roll it onto the plate.”
