Page 101 of Buck ’Em Cowgirl

Fable

“This is unacceptable,” Beau muttered as he pulled open the small shower door.

“What is?” I asked lazily from the bed, still sprawled out, watching the way his ass flexed as he walked toward the bathroom.

“I’ve got a huge tub, and you should be in it—bubble bath, candles, all that girly shit.”

I giggled, finally pushing myself up and padding over to him. Wrapping my arms around his bare back, I pressed my sticky, naked body against him. “Aww, that means you have bath products, which means . . .” I grinned against his skin. “You like a good bath too.”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he caught my hands in his and brought one to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of my palm.

“You’re funny, Cowgirl,” he murmured. He turned, still holding onto me, his dark eyes searching mine. “Was that okay?”

I nodded, my chest tightening at the tenderness in his voice.

He exhaled, his brows pinching slightly. “I-I was on the bull. I knew I was dirty, and I didn’t want⁠—”

My heart damn near exploded. I hadn’t even thought about it. Not once. The usual creeping anxiety, the feeling of grime clinging to my skin, the compulsion to scrub myself raw—it never even crossed my mind.

“No, it was perfect, and I didn’t even . . .” I glanced up at him, trying to make sense of it, and his dark eyes locked onto mine, waiting. “Last time I was at an arena, in Chicago, I couldn’t even walk across it without feeling like I was about to have a panic attack. Today, I sprinted toward . . . you.”

His jaw flexed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his hands tightened around me.

“Should be warm now,” he murmured, nodding toward the shower.

The corner of my lips curled into a small smile, my chest tightening with something that felt like pride—both mine and his. Without another word, I stepped inside, letting the hot water wash over me, knowing I wasn’t alone in this.

“So . . . uh . . . what does this mean?”

After we both showered, Beau insisted I needed lunch, so now he was in my kitchen, opening drawers and checking the fridge like he’d done it a hundred times. I sat at the table, watching him, trying to decide if I hated how easy it was.

Because I didn’t.

Nothing about this felt uncomfortable. Him being here, taking care of me, cooking in my space, it felt unsettlingly natural.

He turned from the stove, spatula in hand, mid-way through making an omelet with the few ingredients I had in my pantry. His dark eyes flicked to mine from over his shoulder before he added the omelet to two plates.

“It means whatever you want it to.”

Beau set the plate in front of me, the smell alone making my stomach growl. I raised an eyebrow at him. “So, this is more than a one-time thing?”

He didn’t answer right away, just grabbed his own plate and sat across from me, taking his time as he cut into his food.

I glanced down at the omelet—fluffy, golden, perfectly cooked. I hated cooking. Not because I didn’t enjoy it, but because it stressed me out. Finding ingredients, measuring, combining them—it all felt like a risk. What if the meat wasn’t cooked all the way? What if the eggs weren’t done right and made me sick? The anxiety of it all was enough to make me live off snacks instead.

This smelled like something I could trust. Like someone else had taken on the weight of responsibility for me, and for once, I didn’t have to question it.

I picked up my fork, hesitating for only a second before taking a bite.

“Oh wow,” I mumbled through a mouthful of fluffy omelet.

“Good?”

I nodded.

“To answer your question . . ..” He set his fork down and leaned back in the chair. “It has to be more than a one-time thing.”

“It has to be?”