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After a glance over her shoulder, she disappears around the corner. I exhale a breath, grip the back of my neck, and wonder how the hell I got here.

This girl in my house, infiltrating all my defenses. Fucking unacceptable is what it is.

Distractions are dangerous. Delilah’s proximity is dangerous. I can only have so many emotions, so many troubles at once. Loving a woman isn’t on the agenda.

Needing something to do, something to keep me busy and my mind off her, I start dinner.

My kitchen is one of my favorite spaces in my ranch house. Nothing beats relaxing after a long, hard day on the ranch with a glass of whiskey and a steak.

From the bottom cabinet, I pull my mother’s cast iron skillet. From the fridge, two filets and a bottle of rosé Wyoma left. I uncork a bottle of whiskey, pour a finger, and swallow it down. Pour a glass of wine for Delilah, then glare at it.

What the fuck am I doing? I should demand she drink whiskey. I should make her get the fuck out of my house.

Because right now, she’s showering in my bathroom. I’m hard in my jeans just imagining her soaping up those gorgeous breasts, my dick buried deep in her sweet pussy.

Christ.

I clear my throat and adjust my erection. Restraint.

Goddamnit, man. Pull it together.

After a couple of minutes, there’s the pad of bare feet over the hardwood. Delilah returns, wearing one of my Pro Bull Riding T-shirts. It’s big as hell on her and damningly short. Lithe, toned thighs. Perky, plump tits. A tiny nipped waist. Her damp hair, waved from the shower, spills over one shoulder. Her beauty’s ethereal.

Smiling, she gestures at her shirt. “Bulls tried to kill me today, so it only makes sense.” She bites her bottom lip, worrying it between her teeth. “Hope you don’t mind. I found it in a drawer.”

“You always go through people’s drawers?”

Her smile is teasing. “Drawers. Pockets. Medicine cabinets. You don’t know the half of it.” Something tells me she’s not joking.

Slowly, she approaches the island, stands on tiptoe to peer over. “You’re cooking.”

“Stay for dinner.” It’s a rasp. Damn near a plea.

“What if I have plans?”

My head jerks back, and she smiles. Fooled you, she mouths.

Death of me, I think and run a hand across my jaw to smother a grin.

“Gotta eat sometime.” I add a hunk of butter to the cast iron. An electric sizzle fills the kitchen.

“Are you sure?” she asks, leaning on the counter to watch as I season the steaks. “I’ll probably just get in your way like today.”

“No. You helped.” I give her a look, wanting her to understand that she did something today. She’s not just a gorgeous face. She’s a hard worker. As smart as she is beautiful.

Her gaze flicks around my kitchen, the half-full coffee pot, the radio, a folded-up newspaper. “So this is where you live. I pictured you in a barn or something.”

I release an amused grunt. I like her no-bullshit way of getting to a point. It’s endearing, yet innocent.

“I’m impressed.” She settles onto a stool, and I fixate on the steaks. Her in my kitchen. It’s a feeling I don’t want to get used to. “But what I’m really impressed about is that you have a bathtub, Cole Weston.”

“You like baths?”

Nostalgia bleeds into her sigh. “They’re my favorite. After a long day at the club, I’d relax with a glass of wine and some music.”

“Got your wine.” I grab the glass of rosé and set it in front of her. Give a nod at the record player behind her, and she glances over her shoulder. “Got your music too.”

Her eyes light up as she turns to me. “Can I put something on?”