Page 15 of Branded By the Cowboy

Which is… dangerous.

Because I don’t do soft. I don’t do close.

I do protection. Provision. Pragmatics.

Not want.

And definitely notneed.

But when she turns, mug in hand, and gives me that small smile like it’s the only thing she has left to offer, something inside me tugs tight.

Like a rope pulled too fast through calloused hands.

I nod toward the table, my voice rougher than it needs to be. “Sit. Eat something.”

She hesitates. Then sits.

And I go back to my mug like I haven’t already memorized every damn line of her.

It hits me, all at once, how strange it is to have another person here. Not a ranch hand. Not family. Not someone passing through.

Someone I asked for. Someone who answered.

I set my mug down a little harder than I meant to and grab my coat. “South fence needs a check,” I say to no one in particular.

“I’ll come,” Luna says.

Her reply is automatic. No hesitation.

I blink. “You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

And that’s it. No fuss. Just two virtual strangers about to become husband and wife heading out into the chilly morning.

We don’t talk much as we walk, but it’s not uncomfortable.

As we pass the horse paddock, her boot catches on a loose rock. She stumbles and inhales sharply.

I move on instinct, one arm circling her waist, the other catching her elbow. She collides against my chest, solid and warm and soft in all the ways that make my pulse hammer. Her fingers clutch my forearms, grip tight enough to bruise.

"I got you," I murmur, my voice a rough scrape I barely recognize.

She looks up, brown eyes wide, lips parted. For one dangerous moment, we stay like that. Her scent—vanilla and sunshine—fills my senses.

"Angus," she whispers, my name a question I don't know how to answer.

I release her and step back. “Ground's uneven,” I say, trying to recover. “You'll get used to it.”

She nods, a flush creeping up her neck. “I'm sure I will.”

I turn away before I do something stupid, like touch her again. Or worse, pull her close and see if she tastes as good as she smells.

Christ, what's wrong with me? She's here for a business arrangement, not whatever my half-hard cock wants.

We continue walking along the trail that edges the south pasture. She’s not chatty. Luna doesn’t speak unless I do. It should be awkward, but it’s not. It’s calming walking beside someone who respects silence the same way I do.

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye.

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