Page 58 of Her Saltwater Cowboy

As the women moved on, their voices a frenzy of talk about possibilities, Chance crouched beside the press. With his fingers, he tightened a bolt by habit more than need. Rafael wiped his palms on his jeans and passed him a wrench.

After a moment, Chance said, “Looks like this thing’s got another season in it.”

“Yeah,” Rafael said. “Some things don’t need replacing—just someone willing to give ’em another go.”

Chance nodded, still crouched. But his eyes followed Willow’s path until she disappeared from view.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Some things are worth the work.”

* * *

Two small bottles sat side-by-side like trophies on the windowsill, catching the kitchen’s warm light—Topa Gold. Willow loved the sound of it on her tongue.

If only there was enough to cook a meal for everyone.

Only a few of the trees had enough growth to produce something, since most of the grove had gone dormant from lack of water and feeding. But starting small had been the plan anyway, and from the look of things, there was hope.

Chance stood at the sink, sleeves rolled back, scrubbing the press’s crank handle with a toothbrush, of all things. A dirty tool sat on the counter next to him.

Willow leaned on the doorframe, her eyes brushing over the slight bend of his neck, the gentle shifting of his muscles as he scrubbed, the line of his jaw. He could be doing this out in the laundry area, but she wasn’t complaining.

More and more, Willow enjoyed the simple things. Like watching Chance work.

She noticed other things, too, and not just because they seemed to be working alongside each other—and more—these days. He made her laugh. He brought calm and warmth into her days, even on the most chaotic of them.

He shook water from the handle and reached for a towel. She might have scolded him in the past for that—using a kitchen towel to clean his tools—but she couldn’t bear to break up the bliss she’d been feeling.

Instead, she said, “Want me to start boiling water?”

“Sure. If you’re looking to make exactly three tablespoons of pasta.”

“It’ll be the best pasta you’ve ever tasted.”

He laughed. “I agree. It would be a start—and delicious too.” He spread out the towel on the counter and laid the handle on it. “Your enthusiasm is contagious.”

“Don’t blame me,” she said lightly. “Blame Bella and her Pinterest board full of Italian olive groves.”

“She’s determined. I’ll give her that.” He smiled. “But something tells me you’re invested in this at least as much—maybe more.”

She eyed him. It’s true. From the minute she encountered his mother’s deliberate handwriting, her dreams, and plans, she was all in. She was curious and terrified all rolled into one.

Something else terrified her … the way she felt herself expecting him. Letting him near. Wanting him near.

He’d barely touched her, well, except for saving her from certain death in the old creek. But seriously … the way he looked at her, the things he said, shoot, the things hedidfor her.

And yet, neither of them had professed their feelings for the other. She was living in Jane Austen’s world, just waiting for him to ask her father for her hand.

Only her father was long gone, and, frankly, she wasn’t sure where she would be this time next year.

Plus, there was the last little tidbit that she’d failed to confess …

Her phone buzzed on the counter behind her. Once. Twice. Then a third time. Her whole body went still.

Chance glanced toward the sound, one eyebrow raised. “Spam?”

She frowned. “Maybe … wait, no. I’ll go take this outside.”

He didn’t press her as she grabbed the phone and backed toward the door. “I’ll, uh … be right back.”

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