Page 40 of Awaiting the Storm
“This is why we don’t go out when we have morning chores,” I say slowly.
They all groan. Then Charli looks up and gives me a little smirk and wiggles her eyebrows. I scowl at her, but it’s half-hearted.
“Don’t start. I don’t want to talk about last night. I’m just here to work,” I declare.
I grab a pitchfork and start spreading fresh straw in the stalls behind Cabe. The scent of hay and horses fills my lungs, and with every pass, I feel a bit steadier on my feet, like my system is being reset by getting back to what it knows. Work. Muscle memory.The ranch.
They don’t question me, and they all give me a wide berth in order to get my footing.
I’m mid-scoop when I hear the sound of an engine coming up the drive.
I straighten slowly, swiping sweat from my forehead as I peer toward the front of the barn. The sun is low enough now that the light casts the opening in a haze. I see a dark green pickup pull to a stop just beyond the door.
Caison climbs out.
My stomach flips. And then twists into a tight knot.
He’s in jeans and a white long-sleeved shirt this time, a black ball cap pulled low over his eyes. One hand clutches his keys as he shuts the door with his hip. The other holds something I instantly recognize—my hat.
The one I wore last night. The one I didn’t realize was missing.
Perfect.
I drop the pitchfork against the stall wall and wipe my hands on my jeans, but I don’t move. Not until Charli nudges me with her elbow.
“Look alive, Matty,” she says under her breath. “Your sexy cowboy’s here.”
I look over my shoulder and toss her a scorching look, but it doesn’t faze her.
I’m gonna be sick.
“Go on. You’ll be fine.” Her grin is annoyingly smug. “Just try to resist attacking him again. At least until you have him alone.”
I growl at her, but my feet are already moving.
Caison approaches the barn, gaze fixed on me. His eyes are unreadable, but the air between us tightens like it’s holding its breath. I know I am.
“You lose something last night?” he calls, twirling the hat that’s hanging from his fingertips.
“I guess I did,” I say, walking toward him in slow, measured steps. “Thanks for returning it.”
He holds it out to me. “Figured it might be important.”
I take it from him, the back of my hand brushing his as I do. A jolt of electricity moves through me, and I wonder if he can feel it too.
“It is. It was my mother’s. I appreciate you making sure it wasn’t left at the bar.”
“Not a problem,” he says before searching my face and asking, “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I snap, the sound coming out more high-pitched than I meant for it to.
His brow arches. “That was convincing.”
I cross my arms.
“Thought I might find you still in bed,” he says.
I sigh, shifting the hat in my hands. “What do you want, Caison?”
