Page 28 of The Cowboy's Secret Babies

And Ryder was not made of stone.

He had never pretended he was.

He moved toward her and then, anticipating an objection, he put his palm over the nape of her neck and guided her with him to the other side of the kitchen. Then, because it was March and bitterly cold outside, straight into the pantry.

“What… what are you doing?” she asked, but Ryder didn’t answer her as he closed the door behind them.

Or rather, he did, but not with words.

He bent down, gathering that sleek body of hers against him, and took her mouth with his.

And one question was answered immediately.

Rosie was every bit as tempting as his memory had convinced him she was. She tasted like sugar and heat and he licked his way in, amazed to discover that he hadn’t over exaggerated the power in this at all.

This had been the problem that night.

Kissing Rosie felt like coming home.

In Texas, he had assured himself that feeling was simply because she was literally from his hometown.

But this was Cowboy Point. And everything was different now. That feeling of homecoming seemed to wrap itself around him, then draw him in deeper.

Better still, she kissed him back.

And Ryder knew her better now. Certainly better than he had after one night of flirting, a couple of cocktails with a little bit of food, and then that wild rush of heat that had haunted him ever since.

That ghost of her that he’d never managed to escape.

Had he come here that day to apologize—or to see if she still haunted him years later?

Either way, he knew her better now than he had then. That meant he could marvel even more at how she kept herself so contained, so polished in her everyday life. That sleekness like a weapon.

But when his mouth was on her, she went wild.

Her kiss was ravenous. Their tongues tangled and she reached up to grab handfuls of his shirt, pulling him closer to her.

The fire between them was instant. The burst of need, that blaze of longing, was close enough to overwhelming. It was a flame that seemed to reach higher and burn brighter than any he’d felt before—

There was a noise on the other side of the pantry door and Rosie jerked back, as if she’d suddenly been shocked by something electric.

“I swear I saw her come in here,” came her sister Matilda’s voice, perfectly audible through the door. “Maybe she went outside to get a little fresh air.”

“The air isn’t fresh, it’s freezing cold,” came another voice that Ryder recognized. Wyatt Stark.

“It’s the poetry in your soul that makes you so compelling and not at all off-putting,” Matilda replied. “Really.”

And then she laughed at whatever the notably unpoetic Wyatt rumbled her way, in a low voice that didn’t make it to the pantry door.

Inside, in the dark, Rosie tipped forward, pressing her forehead into Ryder’s chest. She was still gripping his shirt, but now every muscle in her body was tense.

When there were no more sounds in the kitchen, she blew out a breath. She pushed back and touched her fingertips to her face, as if looking for cracks. Or evidence of that fire that had raged so high and hard between them.

“Rosie,” he began.

She shushed him, but viciously. Her gaze snapped to his, and even in the dark of the pantry closet, he could see the expression she was shooting his way clearly. It was made of daggers, sharp and deadly.

“You will stay in this pantry,” she told him, her voice brooking absolutely no argument and backed up with that frown that made him want to apologize without knowing what his infraction was. “You will count to one hundred. I will go out there, make sure the coast is clear, and hope that people think that you’re the one that was outside in the snow, getting fresh air or dying of hypothermia.”

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