Page 52 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

“That’s the same thing, just in cleaner boots.”

He laughs, and because my life is a joke, I laugh too.

Which is how, an hour later, I find myself in the passenger seat of Duke’s truck with a peach pie balanced carefully in my lap and the slow, creeping realization that I may have made a tactical error.

Not because I’m going to a potluck.

Because I’m going to a potluck with Duke.

Alone.

In a truck cab that smells like worn leather, clean soap, and the faintest trace of warmth and spice, which should probably be illegal when paired with a sunset and a man who knows exactly how to use his smile as a controlled substance.

I shift the pie on my knees. “This is your fault.”

Duke glances over as he turns onto the main road toward town. “You haven’t even been judged by anyone yet.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

He grins, eyes on the road. “Maybe.”

I stare out the window before I say something stupid.

The valley opens up around us in long stretches of meadow and pine, late afternoon light turning everything softer than it has any right to be.

The mountains in the distance are all shadow and blue. Fence lines stripe the fields. Horses graze in scattered groups. It’s disgustingly picturesque.

Colter Creek really is beautiful. I can’t help but notice it every time I leave the ranch.

I shift again, hyperaware of every bump in the road, every brush of my sleeve against the center console, every time Duke’s big hand moves on the wheel.

This is ridiculous.

We’re being ridiculous.

Since that day, we’ve handled the situation with exactly the kind of maturity you’d expect from two adults living in close proximity under complicated circumstances, which is to say we haven’t handled it at all.

He still smiles at me like I’m his favorite problem.

I still feel like someone swapped out all my internal wiring for exposed live current whenever he gets too close.

And neither of us has mentioned it.

Healthy.

Very stable.

Ten out of ten.

“Relax,” Duke says.

I turn to glare at him. “That’s a hateful thing to say to an anxious person.”

“You’re not anxious.”

“No?”

“You’re braced.”