Austin
When the cattle are safe and the fence line repaired, I tell the other ranch hands to eat without me, then head into town. Normally, there’s a big pot of stew or pasta waiting for all of us at the end of a long day. It’s courtesy of my mom, who was born into the ranch life and knows nothing else, much like my dad. They’re both semi-retired now. Dad helps with the feed and paperwork, while Mom still does the cooking and fussing over all of us workers. She likes us all to eat together since she knows most of us would probably just grab a burger or microwave a frozen meal because it’s fast and it’s easy. Normally, the only thing we ranchers want at the end of the day is a pillow and a bed. Not tonight, though.
Pulling up outside the tiny cottage that was home to my high school English teacher until she passed from old age, I grab a takeout bag from the passenger seat and try to straighten up my shirt. I probably should’ve taken the time to return to the house and clean up, but ever since I yelled at Harper to get off the property, all I can see is the hurt look in her eyes and the tremble of that plump bottom lip of hers. Broke my fucking heart.
And it’s not even that I was angry with her. It’s just that when I’m dealing with an unruly bull, I’ve gotta be gruff and stern. If he senses even a moment of weakness, we’re all in for it. So my tone was for him. I would never yell at a woman. Especially one who seems as sweet as Harper.
Lifting my hand, I rap my knuckles against the frosted glass panel on the front door, watching through it until I see the outline of her figure, then hear the shifting of bolts and locks. She obviously takes security seriously, because when she opens the door, the chain is still attached.
“Oh. It’s you,” she says, pulling a baby pink robe tight around her middle. “If it’s about before, I’m sorry for going on your land. I didn’t see the signs, but I’ll never ride out there again.”
“I didn’t come here to scold you, Harper. Can I come in? I brought food.” I lift the bag from the town diner to show her.
“I already ate.”
“Did you eat a burger? Did you have fries? And a strawberry shake?”
“No,” she says, her voice soft but wary. “It was just a sandwich. I wasn’t too hungry.”
“Well, that’s not going to keep your strength up.”
“I guess not,” she says, looking at the bag I’m holding with hunger in her eyes. “Can you just give me one sec?”
“Sure thing.”
Pushing the door closed, I can hear her footsteps as she runs from one end of the house to the other. She’s gone for about sixty seconds in total before she arrives back, unlinks the chain, then opens the door wide, her chest heaving with exertion.
“You coulda stayed in your pajamas,” I say, unable to hide the grin as I take in the jeans and sweater she’s pulled on.
“Considering I barely know you, I think the fact I let you in here shows a great deal of courage. I think I’ll keep the pajama party for another time.”
My brow lifts as I meet her eyes. “So there’s a pajama party on the cards then? Good to know.”
She laughs, her hand lifting to rub the back of her neck. “Dude, I’m old enough to be your...er...much olderaunt.There will be no pajamas or parties,” she fires back, her voice sounding a lot more sturdy than her gaze is.
“Disappointing,” I say, grinning and frankly enjoying the fact that she seems nervous around me.
“Kitchen’s this way.”
I hang back for a second, just long enough to get a good look at her ass as she moves down the hall. And it’s a great ass. Those jeans of hers certainly do hug it nicely.
“Austin Cassidy,” I say, taking the seat opposite her as I unpack the food and slide hers across the table.
She looks at me with wide eyes as she slurps her strawberry milkshake. “What?”
“Austin Cassidy. That’s my full name—so we know each other a little better.”
“Oh! HarperJones. That’s my full name. It’s nice to officially meet you,” she says, holding out her hand for me to shake.
I smile as I wrap my hand around hers, noting the way the warmth from her touch travels through my palm and up my arm, setting little fireflies off beneath my skin. It’s an uncanny feeling, something I’ve never experienced before, and it just makes me want to touch her more.
“I wanted to make sure you were OK. That was quite a situation you found yourself in,” I say as I turn her hand over and inspect her palm. It’s covered in gravel rash despite the fact she was wearing gloves, and I hate to think what would have happened to her without them. “Does this hurt?”
She snatches her hand away like she’s just touched a flame. “It’s fine. Probably looks worse than it is on account of all the grease and cracked skin… I have man hands... It’s embarrassing.”
“Man hands?” I knit my brow as I hold my hands out across the table, palm up so she can see the calluses and dirt that’s trapped in there from working all my life. “So, they look like this?”
“Almost,” she says, the bubble of a laugh in her voice as she lays her hand out beside mine. It looks small in comparison, but not so small that it feels like I might break her. I think I like everything about her. “If you take away the gravel rash, I’ve got the calluses from working on engines all day, and no matter how much I scrub, I can never get all the grease out. It’s the curse of the mechanic.”
