Page 41 of Slow Burn

“It’s okay,” I answer. “Wasn’t in the stars.”

Lyla twists her mouth to the side as she nods.

“I have some ideas for the ranch,” she offers, changing the subject. I’m grateful to no longer be talking about Tessa. “I made some notes today that I’d like to go over with you. Maybe after dinner you could come down to the house?”

I shake my head, although everything in me wants to say yes, to have one more minute alone with Lyla. One more minute with her all to myself, and a chance to redo the night on the porch swing. I’d kiss her this time.

“Can’t,” I answer, and her face falls. “One of the heifers will be calving tonight. Told Sutton I’d meet her out in the pasture to wait. Can you let Dad know I’ll be home late tonight?”

“Isn’t it Sutton’s job to stay out there with them?” Lyla asks. “Isn’t calving season exhausting?”

I shake my head. “It is. But I have a responsibility to those animals, and I never let one of them deliver without being there. At least, not if I can help it.”

She nods, chewing on the inside of her bottom lip. “Got it, Bossman.”

A few of the ranch hands approach the barn on horseback, bringing their animals to a stop in front of us and hopping down to lead them into the barn. Dylan looks over at Lyla as he passes by, leading his horse into the barn.

His eyes drag down her still wet form longer than I’m comfortable with. I grind my molars at the way he smiles at her, like he’s a predator and she’s fresh meat. It makes me want to punch his eyes out of his sockets.

“Eyes on the ground when Lyla Morgan is around,” I bark. I emphasize her last name, reminding Dylan who she is, and that we’ve had this conversation before.

I step out of his way as he moves to walk past me toward his horses stall.

“Didn’t know we were having a wet t-shirt contest. I’d have finished my work earlier,” he says, with a sly smile.

My face heats, blood whooshing in my ears as my blood pressure rises. Lyla is still standing there, and when I look back at her, she tilts her head and mouths one question.

Jealous?

I lift the hose and fire a spray of water at her, making her shriek and run toward the house. She retreats, the backside of her now also soaked, and I shake my head with a laugh.

That fucking woman sees right through me.

I am jealous.

I’m jealous of anyone else who has the pleasure of even looking at Lyla Morgan. But also, Dylan is a fucking shithead, and has always been a shithead. This is the last straw.

I go outside to the tap and quickly turn off the water, and then head into the stable where Dylan is taking the saddle off his horse. He’s so casual, aloof. I want to ruin him for having the balls to comment on Lyla’s wet t-shirt.

“Dylan,” I shout, and he looks up at me, still cocky. Still fucking infuriating. “You’re fired.”

It’s almost one in the morning by the time I get back to the house. I’m bone tired but satisfied, the way I am after a productive day at work. The calf was delivered without complication, and was up and walking–albeit on very wobbly, knobby legs–within a half hour. Sutton left once she deemed the calf, and Mom, to be healthy. But I stuck around for another hour to make sure it had a good feed.

I kick my boots off by the door and hang my hat on the coat rack. The house is quiet, and dark, except for the warm lamp glow coming from the living room. Dad must have fallen asleep in his chair again. He’ll be snoring, mouth hanging open.

The only person I find snoring when I round the corner is Lyla. Fast asleep on my couch. My heart squeezes as I take in her small frame, curled up on the large leather sofa, her cheek smushed up against the throw pillow. She looks small, almost fragile if I didn’t know her any better. If I didn’t know what a ball buster she could be when she wants to be.

If I wasn’t acutely aware of the way she has a vice grip on my heart.

Critter wakes when he hears me and comes over to greet me, his silly tongue hanging out of his mouth. By the look of his one tooth sticking out over his lip, I realize his tongue hangs out because he has no other teeth to hold it in.

“Hey you little weirdo,” I say, reaching down and fluffing his ears with an affection that surprises me.

I notice the two empty highball glasses, only a small amount of clear but amber tinged liquid sitting at the bottom. It’s the remnants of whiskey, watered down by melted ice cubes. I pick one of them up and pour myself a glass from the bottle sitting on the coffee table and sit in Dad’s wingback chair next to the fireplace.

The table is littered with a deck of playing cards, as if someone lost and threw their hand. My dad’s, probably. He was always a sore loser.

But Lyla must have indulged him, and she looks peaceful enough, her soft features relaxed and unbothered in her peaceful dream state. He can’t have pissed her off too bad. I like that she enjoys my dad’s company. She holds him in a positive regard, goes out of her way to help him and spend time with him.