Page 73 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

“Then maybe it’ll stick this time.”

I smile sweetly. “You know, I’d call you unpleasant this early in the morning, but that would imply you improve.”

He gives me the closest thing he has to an amused grin and heads out.

And suddenly I’m alone in the kitchen with dirty plates, cooling eggs, and the very inconvenient certainty that something happened last night and I don’t like not knowing what it was.

That should probably bother me for better reasons than it does.

Instead, I stand at the sink with my hands braced on the edge and stare at an abandoned butter knife waiting for a confession.

“Excellent,” I tell it. “Love this for me.”

The butter knife, same as most people in this house, offers nothing useful.

By midmorning, I’ve got enough irritation under my skin to become productive.

That’s one of my better traits, I think. Some people get frustrated and turn into assholes. Some people get frustrated and go looking for a fight.

I get frustrated and start doing things, which is not only more socially acceptable but occasionally hot if you frame it right.

So I throw myself into work.

The kitchen inventory needs updating anyway. The freezer in the back pantry has been making a noise I don’t trust.

There’s a roast marinating for dinner, three loaves proofing by the window, and a grocery list going because Jesse mentioned he and the twins might be here Friday and if that man brings those children into my kitchen without enough cereal and emergency dessert on hand, I’ll never recover.

I knead dough. I reorganize dry goods. I make a mental note to tell Sherry we’re low on cinnamon because I know if I tell Cody he’ll ask for quantities and I don’t currently need that kind of oppression in my life.

By 11:30, I’ve punched bread hard enough to qualify as therapy and still haven’t stopped thinking about Annie and Cody.

That’s irritating.

At noon, I give in and go looking for information because I can’t stand the not knowing anymore.

Cody’s office door is half open. He’s inside at his desk, sleeves rolled up, glasses on, staring at two screens full of numbers as if they’ve insulted our mother.

The room is exactly what anyone with eyes would expect from Cody. Ledgers stacked with mathematically satisfying precision, color-coded tabs, no unnecessary objects, and not one damn thing out of place unless it belongs to a system only he understands.

He doesn’t look up when I knock on the frame. “What?”

“Hello to you too.”

“I’m busy.”

“Clearly.”

I step in anyway and drop into the chair across from his desk.

That gets his attention.

He lifts his gaze over the rim of his glasses, expression already flat with warning. “What do you want?”

I lean back as if this is a casual social call and not me poking at a hornet’s nest in prescription lenses. “You tell me.”

His jaw tightens. “I’m not doing this.”

“That’s funny, because from where I’m sitting, you’ve been doing this all morning.”