She stands up, grabs her things, beer in hand, droplets trailing down her arms and walks out of the gate.
“Follow her, you idiot,” Luke whispers from the pool.
I shake my head.
Jumping up from the pool and not thinking about anything, I run to her. She’s already inside so I open the door, she’s standing right there in the foyer, water still dripping from her bikini, skin glowing under the porch light spilling throughthe open door. So I walk up to her, grab her face, thumbs on her cheeks, skin warm and damp from the pool, her breath hitching.
“I’ve been wanting to do this all day,” I say to her and then I kiss her, tongues tangling, her moan into my mouth soft and needy, hands fisting my wet hair. I grab them, her small hands in my palms, fingers lacing tight, her body pressing against mine, wet bikini soaking my shirt. I break away, breath ragged, lips tingling, the taste of her still on my tongue.
I smile big.
“Good night, Layla Lou.”
I say before walking out her door—heart pounding, lips swollen, the taste of her still on my tongue, every step away feeling like pulling against a current.
Chapter 26
Handy Man
Layla
A few weeks have gone by, maybe even a month. I finished my book and now I’m in editing mode, and I should be happy. I should.
The manuscript glows on my laptop screen, words I poured everything into, deadlines finally met, Tina already emailing about next steps. But this thing with Cole… the random kisses, the sweet and thoughtful things he’s been doing for me, leaving books on my porch, asking about my chapters like he actually cares, fixing things in the guest house without being asked. Sometimes he kisses me, deep, hungry, like he can’t help it, sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes I have to be the one to initiate even a conversation, a look, a brush of fingers. It’s like apush and pull with him, a slow, torturous dance that leaves me dizzy and aching.
My feelings have not changed. In fact, I think they are stronger. Do I love him? I don’t know. But what I do know is I love this family and I love this ranch and it’s becoming more painful every day being here and not being his. The quiet mornings with coffee on the porch, the way the sun hits the fields at dusk, the smell of hay and leather and him—it’s all starting to feel like home. And that terrifies me.
I’ve already called Tina and let her know the book is done and now I’m doing some rough edits, getting it ready for them. That should be done within the next few weeks. Maggie said something about wanting to throw me and Cole a birthday party here on the ranch on Friday, which is really sweet. Him and I share the same birthday. I’ve always thought that was cool, fate or coincidence, I don’t know, but it feels like something.
I’m watching Cole from my living room window, he’s fixing some fence that’s been broken from one of the horses for a few weeks. The sun’s high, sweat darkening his shirt across his back, muscles flexing with every swing of the hammer. He looks like he needs help. I’m good with my hands.
I get up off the chair—the wood creaking under me—and tug my boots on, laces rough against my fingers. Walk outside. The air is thick with summer heat, sun beating down hot on my shoulders, grass crunching dry under my boots. He looks up, makes eye contact with me but doesn’t say anything—just goes back to fixing the fence, jaw tight, toothpick rolling between his lips.
So I stand there next to him, close enough to smell him: leather, pine, sweat, that faint cedar cologne that always lingers on my skin after he’s touched me.
“Need some help?”
He grunts, low, rough, the sound vibrating through me.
“Can you hold the post steady while I hammer this in?” He asks, still not making eye contact with me but he does glance at my thighs. I see his jaw clench. Does it make him mad or turn him on? The look is quick, hungry, gone in a second, but it sends heat pooling low in my belly.
“Sure thing, Scrooge,” I tease, stepping closer, voice light even though my pulse is racing.
He huffs—a short, almost-laugh.
Our hands brush a little as I grip the post, rough wood under my palms, his calluses scraping my skin and my thighs clench together because he hasn’t touched me in a few days. Hasn’t kissed me either. He hammers, each strike sharp, ringing through the metal, muscles flexing under his shirt. Watching him work is one of my favorite pastimes. He’s not bad to look at. In fact, I could look at him every day for the rest of my days, broad shoulders, strong forearms, the way sweat beads at his temple and trails down his neck. My mouth goes dry.
“Hand me another nail from the bucket,” he grunts.
“Can you say please?” I ask, eyebrows raised.
“Please.” He says, looking up at me and there it is, that stare, those beautiful blue eyes locking on mine. I hand him the nail and our hands brush again, fingers touching, lingering just a second too long. He rubs his thumb against mine, deliberate, slow, before pulling away to hammer again.
“Alright, step over here and help me with this wire. Keep it taut while I staple it in.”
I follow his orders. I love the way he commands, low, sure, like he knows I’ll obey. I step in front of him and he slides behind me, showing me where to put my hands, showing me how tight to hold it. He’s close, chest to my back, heat radiating off him, breath warm on my neck.
“Like this,” he whispers—voice gravelly, lips brushing my ear.
