Page 38 of Dirty Cowboy

Her breath hitches. “Firecrackers explode when they’re teased.”

“I’m not teasing,” I say, my voice a low rumble. “Just...”

I trail off. What the hell am I doing, exactly?

We stand there, tension crackling between us like a live wire. Neither of us moves, like we’re caught in the moment, suspended in something neither of us fully understands. Then, Molly the cat brushes against my leg, breaking the spell.

I exhale, letting my sweatshirt fall from my grip. Thank God for cats.

I grab a bale of hay and toss it into the feeding grate. Emma jumps in like she’s done this a thousand times, stacking bales with a practiced ease that shouldn't be as attractive as it is.

Damn her.

Damn me.

Emma leans against the wooden beam, breathless, strands of hair sticking to her flushed face as she wipes her forehead with the back of her hand.

“We should head back.” I tell her.

She nods, and I take her hand, leading her home with the beam of my flashlight cutting through the dark.

Back at home, I light the fireplace and set the kettle on while Emma disappears upstairs to change.

I’m stirring a spoon through a mug of tea when I hear her voice float down from the second floor.

“Seriously, Grace?”

I glance up at the baluster. “Everything okay?”

Emma stomps into the hall, wild-haired and fire-eyed, waving something lacey in the air.

“Do you have a pajama top I can borrow?” she demands. “Because Grace seems to think this is appropriate.” She shakes the negligee like it personally offended her. “And all the other tops are either embroidered or barely wearable.”

I bite back a smirk. The idea of her in lace—Jesus.

“Honestly, Ems, I don’t own a single pair of pajamas.”

Her hands land on the railing, her exasperation dripping down from the second floor. “Oh, please. What do you sleep in?”

“Nothing,” I say.

Her lips part slightly. The air shifts.

I clear my throat. “But I’m sure I can find a T-shirt for you to wear. Give me a sec.”

I head to my room, rifling through my drawers, but can’t find anything suitable. I fling open my suitcase until my fingers brush over soft fabric. I pull out the ridiculous pink unicorn and rainbow T-shirt I bought in New York.

Perfect.

It smells like me. And the idea of her wrapped up in my scent all night—fuck.

When I turn around, she’s standing in the doorway, half-dressed in a tank top and shorts. The room tilts.

The dim light highlights her toned thighs and the curves of her body. The thin fabric of her top clings to her breasts, teasing, and daring. She’s utterly out of place in this house, and yet she fits here better than she ever did in her New York suits.

My best friend’s little sister.

The words repeat in my head, over and over, like a warning siren. But instead of cooling the fire in my veins, it only fans the flames.

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