Page 20 of Taming the Billionaire Cowboy
His shirt is already covered in dust, and I have to admit he looks good even with a mess on him. Maybe even better - more human, less untouchable.
He pockets the phone and gives me a little nod, a knowing look like he expected this all along. “I’m glad you decided to come back, Carly.”
It’s such a genuine expression of gratitude — one that I would have never expected from him — that I freeze. This is probably the nicest he’s been to me so far.
Although, I know I’m in part to blame for that. I haven’t given him the easiest time since he arrived.
“I’m glad too.” I clear my throat, oddly aware of my heart, which seems to be beating harder than usual. “Besides, you need me.” I grin playfully.
“Oh, I know.” He laughs out loud, and damn, it’s a good sound — deep, vibrant.
I grin even bigger. “You could watch videos all day, but you’d still have no idea what you’re doing.”
His dimples show as he watches me, a hint of warmth in the way he smiles. “And she doesn’t hold back, of course.”
“I call it like I see it, boss.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“That’s good because—” He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence because a chicken zips past us, flapping its wings in a frenzy.
“Not again.” Oliver groans, but there’s a smile on his face as he gives the chicken a head start before chasing it down.
I laugh, enjoying the sight of city boy Oliver trying to outrun the hen. I could tell him that he doesn’t need to worry about corralling the chickens — they always come home to roost — but it’s too much fun watching him run around like this.
There are a few times when he almost grabs the chicken, but each time, it swerves out of reach. Frustrated and panting, Oliver stops and leans against a stall door, his shirt sticking to him with sweat. He shoots me an exasperated look.
“What?” I shrug innocently. “You didn’t ask me how to catch chickens.”
“Ha-ha,” he says dryly.
Deciding to take pity on him, I wipe my hands on my jeans and make my way towards him, calling out to the hen in a sing-song voice. The bird slows down, momentarily confused by the sudden change in pace, just long enough for me to gently scoop her up into my arms.
“It’s all about strategy,” I say, trying not to sound too smug as I walk over and hand him the hen that has been evading him for the past ten minutes. “You can’t just run at them. You have to be smarter.”
Oliver doesn’t reply right away. Instead, he takes the chicken from my arms and holds it close to his chest, looking mildly surprised that he now has the creature under control. It only squirms momentarily in his grip before settling in, seemingly accepting its fate.
“And how exactly does one go about being ‘smarter’ than a chicken?” he asks after a moment of suspicious silence.
“You have to get to know them,” I answer simply as I walk back to the horse, grabbing the discarded brush. “Each one has a different temperament. Some are bold, some are timid. You learn to read their behavior.”
I hear him huff behind me.
“It sounds complicated,” he says.
“All the best things usually are.” I can’t help but add, “Don’t worry, newbie, you’ll get the hang of it in no time.”
He releases a slow breath, relinquishing his hold on the hen, who bolts from his grasp and flutters away. He doesn’t chase after it this time. “I never needed to catch her, did I?”
“Nope.” I giggle.
“You just wanted to see me sweat.”
I shrug. “What can I say? It looks good on you.”
Too late, I realize what I’ve said. Oliver glances down at his sweat-soaked shirt, and my gaze inevitably follows. He catches me looking at his chest, the defined muscles on clear display thanks to the damp, thin fabric, and my face catches on fire.
Kill me now.
