Page 9 of Wrong Number Right Cowboy
Kissing Sawyer was a mistake.
It was easier to keep my guard firmly secured around my heart until I did the stupidest thing I could do and fuckingkissedher. My fortified walls crumbled in an instant.
“Think she’ll be okay?” Sawyer asks of the calf we rescued from the muddy pasture. I don’t know how the hell she got out and away from her mama, but it’s a good thing we found her when we did. She was half submerged in mud and would likely have drowned if we hadn’t discovered her.
“I’ll have the vet check on her foot as soon as the road’s clear,” I say, mostly to reassure Sawyer. I miss seeing the way she cares about every animal on the ranch, as though they were her babies. I miss having her here, where she belongs.
Then convince her to stay, dumbass.
“You think it’s just a sprain?” she asks, folding her arms over her chest. I catch a full body shiver that draws my gaze to the hard nipples poking through the layers of fabric. Her clothes are halfway dry since we’ve been in the barn the past couple of hours, but that doesn’t mean she’s warm.
Then warm her up.
“Yeah, probably just a sprain.”
“Hey, where’s Millie?” she asks, biting her bottom lip. “I looked for her, but?—”
“She’s gone.”
“Yousoldher?” Fire instantly rages in those baby blues. Fuck if it doesn’t cause the blood to rush south.Thisis the Sawyer Rose I know and love. The woman who’s ready to go to battle because she thinks I did something nefarious with one of the rescue animals.
“You weren’t here.”
“You cold-hearted bastard. How could you?”
“Of course I didn’t fucking sell Millie.” Sawyer wasn’t here when the highland cow rescue we picked up almost a decade ago got sick. It pissed me off so much that I couldn’t bring myself to call her and let her know.
“What happened?”
“I’m too fucking tired for this right now, Sawyer,” I say, scrubbing a hand over my face. After we returned the calf to her momma in the barn, I ran around checking on all the other animals, ensuring they were all accounted for, safe, and fed.
I’m exhausted.
But the not kind of exhausted sleep can fix.
“No,” she says, stabbing me in the chest with her finger again. “You donotget to avoid this conversation.”
“Youfucking left,” I fire back.
We stare at one another for several charged beats, a mixture of furry and passion dancing in our locked gazes. As much as this woman frustrates me sometimes, I always want to fuck her. The way she keeps dropping her gaze to my lips says she still feels that way, too.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I say, hoping my arrogant tone breaks the tension. Or at least causes her to shove me away. Because I can’t seem to do anything but step closer. The toes ofmy mud-covered boots touch the tips of her Birkenstocks. Heat swirls between us as though a warm front has moved in and replaced the rainstorm still raging outside.
“Like what?” she asks, staring at my lips.
“Like you want tofuckme.”
Her eyes narrow.
She slaps me.
Then she grabs my face with both hands and yanks me down to her lips. Her body arches against mine, and I wrap my arms around her to pull her closer. Her tits press against my chest as her hips rock against me.
I should stop this.
The minute the road is cleared, she’ll leave. She’ll go back to her fancy city life and forget all about me for another five years.
But I need her as desperately as I need oxygen.
