He walked into the house through the mudroom, stripped out of all of his wet clothes except his jeans, worked a towel through his wet hair as he walked in barefoot through the kitchen, as he usually did when he came in wet or muddy or both.
He nearly made it to his bedroom before he found her, curled up in a chair in the library in front of a roaring fire, reading a book, an image that was like a kick in the gut, it looked so…inviting.
Coming in from a long, hard day at the ranch and finding her there waiting for him. All clean and fresh and so pretty, so sexy.
She put the book down and stood up, wearing a pair of jeans and one of his ex-wife’s blouses, something he actually found pretty. A creamy white against her flawless, pale skin and all that fiery hair, hanging long and loose around her shoulders. The blouse had big buttons up the front and then stopped in a scooped-out neckline that draped lovingly across the hint of curves at the top of her breasts. Her cheeks glowed from the heat of the fire and her eyes sparkled as she looked up at him like a woman who was glad to see him.
“You must be half-frozen,” she said. “I can’t believe you went back out into the storm today.”
“Ranch work doesn’t stop for anything. I have a million dollars worth of livestock out in that storm. I can’t ignore that. Not for anything.”
Just like he couldn’t let himself ignore who she was.
“I know. I just meant…I’m glad you’re back and safe.”
He nodded. “I’m going to take a hot shower and get dressed.”
“Marta left soup on the stove. It’s delicious. And some bread I could warm up,” she offered.
“Sounds good,” he said, then got the hell out of that room.
Yes, she was incredibly pretty and sexy.
A day’s hard ride in a cold driving rain and a tiredness that bordered on exhaustion couldn’t change that, he’d found.
What was he going to do now?
She warmed up the bread and dished out the soup to him, though he told her he could manage easily himself.
“I haven’t done anything all day except read and send a few e-mails, while you were out working,” she said. It only seemed fair that she help out a little bit. “You don’t have a live-in housekeeper?”
“I don’t need a live-in housekeeper. The house isn’t that big, and it’s just me. It doesn’t get that messy or dirty,” he said, as he poured himself a big glass of orange juice and sat down in the eat-in kitchen. “Why? You don’t think a man is capable of surviving without live-in help?”
“I’m just surprised. That’s all,” she said, sitting down at the table with him. “You seem quite self-sufficient.”
“I’m a rancher—”
“A working rancher. Not some pampered pretend cowboy who lives in a mansion and oversees his property and his livestock from afar.”
He frowned. “What the hell kind of rancher is that?”
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