Page 33 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

“Yes, please.”

I grab one from the cabinet. “Alright.”

She watches me. “That’s it? No commentary?”

I glance at her. “On what?”

“My impeccable manners.”

“Seem fine to me.”

She gives me a look. “I could be difficult instead.”

“Yeah,” I say, pouring the coffee and sliding it over to her. “I figured that out already.”

Then I head into the pantry.

Annie narrows her eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Getting you something to eat.”

“I didn’t ask for food.”

I open the cabinet and pull out the tray. “Doesn’t matter. Food is my answer to all problems.”

She leans a little closer. “What is that?”

“Lemon bars.”

“Aren’t those for everyone?” she asks.

“Everything in this house is for everyone until I decide it’s for me.”

“That sounds suspiciously like dictatorship.”

“No, sweetheart, it’s hospitality with initiative.”

Her eyes flash at the endearment, and for half a second I wonder if I imagined it. Then she reaches for a lemon bar.

We sneak out of the kitchen, which is ridiculous considering I live here and pay for half the groceries, but that’s part of the fun, I guess.

I hook the tray under one arm, nod toward the stairs, and say, “Come on. Safer upstairs.”

“Safer from what?”

“Silas’s lectures. Cody’s inventory awareness. Getting caught committing cake crime. General oppression.”

“I’m pretty sure those aren’t all the same thing.”

“You’ve been here a week. Give it time.”

She follows me anyway.

My room’s at the far end of the hall over the kitchen, which means it usually smells faintly of coffee, cinnamon, and whatever I’ve got roasting below. Best spot in the house, no contest. Big window looking out toward the paddocks, worn leather chair in the corner, bed unmade, guitar against the wall, and an old record player I picked up in Spokane three years ago because I’m incapable of passing a thing with history and good woodwork.

Annie steps in and pauses just inside the door.

I try not to grin at her expression.