Page 17 of Rope Me, Cowboys

“So hungry,” I said, unable to keep my eyes from roaming over his arms. God, it was impossible to resist all these gorgeous guys in one place.

“Good,” Sawyer said, turning back to the counter. “We’ve got plenty.”

“There must be something on the wind up here,” I said, joining Sawyer at the counter, where he was chopping peppers on a wooden cutting board. “I’ve never been so hungry in my life.”

Or so horny.

“Is that right?” Sawyer asked, cocking an eyebrow as if he knew exactly what I was thinking.

“Want some help?” I scooted a little closer, until the heat of his skin zipped up my arm. I closed my eyes and tried not to melt.

“You cook?” Sawyer asked, pulling back to look at me.

“I actually love cooking,” I admitted.

“Really?” Sawyer asked, sounding impressed.

“But don’t even think about asking me to be your cook for the next three months. Or wash your underwear, or any of those other old-fashioned notions you men probably have about where women belong.”

“Us men?” he asked, shaking his head. “Maybe you’re the one with the old-fashioned notions.”

“You’re burning the onions.” I plucked the wooden spoon from the counter and stirred the onions while Sawyer dumped in a handful of diced peppers.

“I thought you didn’t want to be our cook,” Sawyer teased, nudging me with his elbow.

“That doesn’t mean I won’t help out,” I said. “I’m living here, too, now. I don’t expect you to wait on me.”

“Okay, Princess.”

“Quit that,” I said, elbowing him back.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

I laughed as I stirred the frying vegetables. “So do the others cook? Or just you?”

“We share cooking duties,” he said. “But I do most of it. I like to cook. It’s relaxing.”

“I just like making things,” I said. “Trying new recipes, seeing how flavors work together. Sometimes the most unexpected combination of ingredients turns out to be the perfect one.”

I reached for the garlic he’d minced on the board at the same moment he did. Our fingers touched, and we both paused. Neither of us pulled away. Slowly, Sawyer’s hand slid over mine, his calloused fingers tightening over my soft ones. I caught him watching my lips, and heat spread up my neck. That was not a brotherly look on his face.

My heart hammered so hard in my chest I thought I’d explode. I wet my lips and leaned in a fraction of an inch, just enough for him to see it. An invitation.

Just then, Sawyer’s phone rang. He cleared his throat and pulled his hand away, turning from me and scooping up the garlic with the edge of the knife. He dumped it into the pan and stirred it, moving so his back was to me.

What the hell had just happened? He shouldn’t have been looking at me that way. And I shouldn’t have liked it. But he was, and I did.

“Our mom taught us to cook,” Sawyer said, pulling his phone out just long enough to silence the ringer before dropping it back into his pocket. “She can make damn near anything. What about you?”

I shook my head to clear it. I must have imagined that lustful look in his hooded eyes.

“Um, no, not so much,” I said. Sawyer handed me the spoon and skirted around me, like he was afraid of accidentally touching me. He went to the fridge, got out some meat, and started slicing it. Meanwhile, I went straight into verbal-vomit mode.

“Well, actually, I don’t really know if my mom can cook, but I’ve never seen her try,” I said. “She’s so busy, she’d probably forget she put on toast until the house burnt down. When I was growing up, we had a nanny who cooked. She’s the one who taught me. I’d come home from school every day and do my homework at the kitchen table while she cooked. It always smelled so good, and eventually, I wanted to know how to make food like that. So it became something we did together. I loved spending time with her, since my parents were always gone. There’s something really satisfying about feeding people, about being able to satisfy them.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Sawyer said. There was an underlying current of tension still sizzling in the air around us. And though his words were slightly teasing, laced with some added meaning, the reminder of that moment that shouldn’t have happened remained.

“It’s nice to take something you made and share it with another person,” I said. “It’s like sharing a part of yourself.”