Page 8 of Oops I Fell For The Cowboy Next Door

"It's a fair trade."

"It is." The words surprise us both. His eyebrows lift a fraction of an inch. "But you know I can't sign anything official, right? I'm a tenant. You'd need my landlord for anything legally binding."

"I'm not looking for legal. I'm looking for your word."

"My word."

"That you won't block access. Won't call your landlord complaining about cattle. Won't make this a problem. And in exchange, I maintain the property. Same deal I had with Dale, except Dale could put it in a deed and you can't."

"So you're asking me to trust you."

"I'm asking you to let me prove you can."

He stares at me. Then he does something I haven't seen before.

He almost smiles.

Close enough that the corners of his mouth shift. That the hard line of his jaw eases. Close enough that something warm rolls through my stomach, settling low.

"You always this stubborn?"

"You always this difficult?"

"Yeah," he says quietly. "Pretty much always."

He crosses the creek in two steps. The water barely reaches his boot tops. Suddenly he's on my side, on my rock, standing close enough that I have to tip my chin up to look at him. He's taller than I remembered. Broader. Up close, his eyes have gold in them. Amber flecks in the hazel that catch the afternoon light.

"Come by tomorrow morning," he says. "I'll write it out so we both know where we stand. Won't hold up in court, but it'll hold up between us."

"You're inviting me to your house?"

"I'm inviting you to my kitchen table for coffee. Don't get excited."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

We're too close. Both of us know it. Neither of us moves.

His gaze drops to my mouth. Holds there for one second. Two. My lips part on a breath I can't control. The warmth in my stomach tightens into something sharper.

He smells like hay.

His hand comes up. My pulse spikes. But his fingers stop just short of my jaw, hovering, close enough that I can feel the heat from his skin without contact. Then he pulls back. Steps away. Puts distance between us so deliberately it feels physical.

"Tomorrow," he says. "Six a.m."

"Six in the morning? That's not a meeting time, that's an ambush."

"Cattle don't sleep in, Piper."

My name in his mouth. Low, rough. Like it costs him something to say it. Like he's been thinking about saying it since the last time he rode away from my fence line.

I swallow. "Fine. Six."

He nods once. Turns. Walks back across the creek, water parting around his boots, and heads up the opposite bank toward the tree line without looking back. Same as last time. Always moving away. Always leaving me standing here with my pulse doing things it has no business doing.

I watch him until the trees swallow him up. Then I sit on the rock for a long time, letting the sun dry my feet, pressing my thumb against the spot on my jaw where his fingers almost landed.

Almost.