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“What’s this, redbird?”
I turn. He’s standing in the hall, looking down at my coat and boots with a faintly amused expression. My stomach flips and I gather my things up. His eyes follow me as I back down the hall and I’m at a loss for what he’s thinking.
“Where do I put my things?” I whisper.
He jerks his head towards the loft.
I scamper up the stairs and place my coat on the bed and my boots by the bathroom door. The mattress is covered in a white quilt and a thick fur blanket. The floor has a southern style print rug, and there’s a little lamp by the bed. Otherwise, it’s bare. I stand on my toes to look out the window. The view is astounding. I think I can see the ranch in the distance. A tiny speck.
When I return, he’s taken off his coat. His Henley is rolled up to his elbows and he’s kneeling by the fireplace, nursing the flames.
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
He nods. “I could eat.”
I go to the kitchen area. There’s everything I need in the pantry for biscuits, even dry milk, and I get to work. He leaves the fireplace crackling and comes over to lean on the islandcounter. His eyes burn like his touch as they watch me cut biscuits and arrange them on a greased tray.
“You’re good at that,” he says.
“I’m a good cook,” I say.
He runs a hand over his jaw, short beard rasping. “I wasn’t snubbing your skills, you’re just not on my payroll. Take your clothes off.”
My head whips up. “What?”
“Remember our contract is in place right now.”
My jaw is slack. “You want me to cook naked?”
The corner of his mouth jerks up. “Strip, redbird.”
I freeze and he circles the counter until he’s right behind me. His heat washes over me and his big, rough hands slip under my sweatshirt and pull it over my head. My pulse quickens. He unfastens my jeans and tugs them off. Leaving me in nothing but my bra and panties.
He slaps my ass, gripping it. “You can keep your bra and panties. For now.”
I flush to the roots of my hair. He goes upstairs and I hear his boots in the loft and when he comes back down, he’s in just a pair of sweatpants. The bull skull on his chest looks at me first, but I can’t look away.
He sinks down in the chair by the fireplace and leans back, spreading his knees.
The oven beeps. I slide the tray inside and wipe my hands. There’s maple sausages cooking on the top. I’m making biscuits, gravy, eggs, and pancakes.
I’ve never met a man who didn’t get excited about breakfast for dinner.
“Can I get you a drink?” I ask, looking around.
He cocks his head. “For me?”
“Yeah.” I put one hand on my hip. “You want some whiskey or something?”
The corners of his mouth turn up. There’s tempered amusement in his eyes. “I’m sober.”
He is? I run through our interactions and try to remember if I’ve ever seen him drink before. I recall having wine with him…but now that I look back, I don’t remember ever seeing him pick up a glass and take a drink.
I wonder why I didn’t notice until now. I’ve never lived with a man who didn’t at least have a shot of whiskey at night when the work was done.
I wonder what he does to unwind, and then realize that’s a stupid question.
Me—he does me to unwind.
