Page 88 of Buck ’Em Cowgirl

“Sure did.”

She squinted at me. “And Bob let two teenagers move into an apartment above his shop?”

I chuckled, shaking my head. “Around here, everyone kinda knows everyone. Bob knew we were good kids. He knew we were both going through our own shit.”

She hesitated. “Gatlin doesn’t have parents either?”

“He does,” I said, sighing. “They . . . they aren’t always around.”

“Ah. That’s tough.”

“It was,” I admitted. “For both of us, in our own ways.”

I wasn’t sure why I suddenly wanted her to know all the ugly parts of my past. Maybe because she got it—what it meant to lose someone and have your whole world shift overnight.

“How did you get back?”

I laughed. “Eventually, Gat and I ran out of food, and my dad got sick of catching us sneaking into the house to steal from the pantry. So, Gat moved in with me instead. We were living on a ranch full of bulls—it was only a matter of time before we got back into it.”

I sighed, flipping the pancakes, feeling the weight of the past settle into my chest. When I looked up, Fable was leaning over the counter, eyes fixed on me.

“My dad had retired by then, so the pressure shifted onto me, but it gave me a purpose. Something to work toward.”

“Yeah, I get that. I put my purpose into . . . someone else. And that was hard.”

“Your ex?”

She nodded, and I chuckled, shaking my head as I slid the pancakes onto a plate. “Didn’t mean for this to get so damn serious.” I hesitated, gripping the edge of the counter before meeting her gaze. “I just . . . I wanted you to know why I called you out. Why I like being your . . . why I like being around you.”

She cocked her head. “I was the one who made it heavy technically.”

I grabbed some butter from the fridge, slathering it over her pancakes before drowning mine in syrup.

“No syrup for the lady.” I teased her, shutting off the griddle and pulling out the stool beside her.

She took a bite and moaned. “You gotta stop making food for me,” she mumbled through a mouthful. “I’m like a stray cat—I’ll keep coming by.”

I rested my forearms on the counter as I took a bite. “Good. Maybe then I’ll finally get you to purr for me.”

“EW. Beaudreau Banks!” she yelled and slapped me on the shoulder.

“Beaudreau Bennett Banks.” I winked at her when her green eyes met mine. “If you want to call me by my full name next time.”

“Your mom had an affinity for B names, huh?”

I laughed. “Guess she did,” I murmured.

We ate in comfortable silence, but every damn time she took a bite of those pancakes, she mewled like it was the best thing she’d ever tasted.

I gripped my fork tighter, staring at my plate like it might save me from the fire creeping up my spine. Hell, I almost wished I’d screwed up the recipe—burned the pancakes, forgotten the salt—anything to keep from hearing that sound coming from her pretty lips.

“Beau?”

“Yeah, Cowgirl?” My tone was rougher than I’d intended.

She shifted on her stool, angling herself toward me, those green eyes searching mine. “Were you avoiding me these past couple weeks?”

I met her gaze head-on, the air between us charged, thick with something unsaid. “Were you?” I shot back.