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I swallow, remembering the jumping equipment for the first time since looking into his eyes. “Hank ordered jumping poles?”

He tips his chin in a barely perceptible nod.

“That’s really sweet of him…but why isn’t he the one out here?”

Lincoln’s tongue moves across his front teeth in a smooth motion. “He pays overtime on the weekends. And I don’t mind.”

Looking into those cool brown eyes, I can’t decipher whether he means he doesn’t mind working overtime on the weekends…or he doesn’t mind building the jumps for my benefit.

I kneel beside him in the dirt, reaching for a wrench that I don’t know how to use—at least, I think it’s a wrench. “Let me help.”

He gently takes the tool from my hand. “Go back to bed.”

Ignoring him, I study the equipment and the directions Lincoln has laid out in front of him. This isn’t just any jump set; it must be the most expensive one Hank could find.

“Whoa, how much did he spend on this?” I glide my hand along the ornate standard that will hold the poles once it’s assembled. “Can any of his mares even jump?”

“He spent a lot,” Lincoln answers, propping two sides of the wooden structure together and beginning to forge them together with sturdy screws. “And apparently he thinks his mares are magic, because no…none of them can jump a damn thing.”

I titter at his dry degradation of Hank’s horses; he makes them sound like spoiled puppies. “I could train them, but I’m not sure what I can accomplish in a few weeks,” I muse. “I’d hate to disappoint Hank, but even the most skilled trainers would need months to train a horse to jump.”

Lincoln stops what he’s doing and meets my gaze. “I guess we’re both unwilling to disappoint Hank then. What happened to your boundaries?”

I huff with indignation. “I only have a few weeks with the man. That’s different.”

Something passes his features, perhaps disappointment or sadness. Or maybe I’m just seeing what I want to see, because the thought of this rugged, burly cowboy being in his feels about me leaving sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. The pull toward this infuriating man is becoming too strong to deny.

I only have to resist the urge to kiss him for a few weeks. Then I’ll be back in California and moving forward with my life, training and competing as usual.

“Since you’re here, make yourself useful and grip this pole while I screw it in.”

I roll my lips together to keep from laughing. I know he didn’t mean it to sound sexual, but that just makes it even funnier.

“You’re worse than Wayne,” Lincoln mutters, his face remaining stoic as I hold the piece and he screws it into place.

I grin. “Your brother is a handful, huh?”

He shakes his head, but I see the affection in his eyes. “He’s better now than he was in high school, but he’s still a rascal.” Lincoln tightens the last screw and tests the sturdiness of the structure with his big hands. “He’s a good man, and a hard worker, so I let him have his fun.”

Lincoln stands and moves to assemble a second structure, and I follow him the few feet across the dirt to hold the sides together again. “Did you used to be a rascal, too?”

He wrinkles his nose, concentrating on his work. His lips twitch with the movement, and I fight back a smile.

“No,” he says with a quick glance at me. His eyebrows scrunch as he studies me from head to toe. “What are you wearing?”

Looking down at myself, I remember that yes, I’m still in my silk pink pajama set. “Seeing as it’s the ass crack of dawn, I’m wearing pajamas.”

His gaze lingers on the light pink fabric until I nudge his side with my elbow. But my elbow meets a wall of muscle that doesn’t budge. Lincoln is the epitome of a hard bodied man. Ignoring how that knowledge sends a shiver across my skin, I force a laugh.

“Don’t change the subject. I bet you were a troublemaker back in the day,” I tease.

“Back in the day? I’m twenty-eight, not seventy.” He finishes assembling the side of the structure quickly.

“Could’ve fooled me.” I raise my eyebrows to taunt him. “I’d like to see your mischievous side,” I say, straightening and tying my coat tighter around my waist.

Lincoln grabs the tools one at a time and places them neatly back inside the small toolbox he brought out here, then stands and stares down at my legs. He can’t seem to take his eyes off my pajama pants. I’d tease him about it, but the way he’s looking at me has me suddenly very aware that I’m not wearing a bra.

His whiskey eyes finally move from my legs to my face. “I don’t have time for fun and games.”