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Grace went for bravado and snorted. “Of course I’m sure.”
He shrugged one wide shoulder, and Grace was suddenly very aware that his plaid button-down shirt wasn’t actually buttoned down. It looked as though he’d just shrugged it on to come investigate the commotion in the hall, and when he moved, a long strip of skin showed from his neck all the way down to his waist. And then there were his jeans and the affectionate way they clung to strong thighs.
The Stud Farm, she suddenly remembered. What kind of place was this?
She shook off her thoughts. The man was wearing cowboy boots, for godssake. He was wholesome and homey. His thighs were none of her concern. But the sight of his boots reminded her that she was in Wyoming, which reminded her why she was in Wyoming and what a mess she’d made of her life. “Anyway,” she said with a scowl, “still none of your business.”
She grabbed the handle of her duffel bag and pulled it up with shaky arms. She couldn’t leave her bag here, but she didn’t know what she was going to do with it. She didn’t know what she was going to do with herself.
A surge of anger gave her the strength to bounce the bag higher in her grip, but she wasn’t going to make it to the curb, much less walk to… Where, exactly?
“Let me get that.” A large hand closed over the handle and lifted the weight from her grasp.
“Hey—” she started, but he’d already transferred the bag to his possession. He held it with one hand as if it were a pocketbook. Even more skin showed past his shirt now. Skin and muscle and golden hair.
While she was staring, he reached past her and opened the door.
He just…opened the door.
“What the hell?” she bit out.
He shot her a puzzled look. “You did say it was your place, right?”
“Yes, but…” She felt like smoke was about to come out her ears, and wanted to snatch her bag away and tell him to get lost. But her arms were so tired. “The door was locked,” she said past clenched teeth.
“It sticks a little. You have to pull back on it before you turn the knob.”
“So it was just open? Unlocked?”
“Nothing to steal here,” he said, gesturing with his free hand. “Where do you want this?”
Where, indeed? Now that they were inside, the apartment looked like an old converted place she’d once rented in L.A. White walls, scuffed wooden floors, a nondescript kitchen. But with little touches from the past, like a fireplace and built-in bookshelves. And not one single piece of furniture.
Somehow that hadn’t occurred to her.
“Right there is fine,” she murmured. “Thanks.” It didn’t really matter, after all. Living room, bedroom. They were equally empty rooms to her.
“Here?” the guy asked doubtfully.
“Yes, there. Thank you. I appreciate the help.”
“Yeah?” He smiled wide enough to show his dimples again. “Then why did you look like those words hurt coming out?”
She tried frowning at him, but he just stuck out his hand.
“I’m Cole, by the way. Cole Rawlins.”
“Grace Barrett,” she said. His wide hand engulfed hers, and though he didn’t squeeze hard, there was no mistaking the strength in those rugged hands. His calluses rasped against her fingers.
“Grace,” he murmured, his gaze rising momentarily to her hair.
“Yes. Grace.” She enjoyed the contradiction of her traditional, gentle name and her physical appearance.
This man recovered more quickly than most. “A pleasure,” he said simply. Then added, “Grace.”
She pulled her hand away at the intimacy of hearing him say her name as if it truly were a pleasure.
Cowboy freak. Though her hand tingled and she tried not to smile.
