Page 10 of My Cowboy Trouble
She heads for the door, pauses, and looks back at us. "Oh, and boys? You might want to start writing those speeches. I don't lose."
She walks out, leaving us staring after her.
"I like her," Clara Mae announces. "She's got balls. Figuratively speaking."
"She's got something," Asher agrees, watching her go with an expression I don't like.
"She's got thirty days to prove it," Trent says, but even he's staring at the door she just walked through.
"Boys," Clara Mae says, heaving herself to her feet, "I think you might have bitten off more than you can chew with this one."
She's probably right. But as I watch Kenzie through the barn window, wrestling with a hay bale and cursing creatively, I can't help but grin.
This is going to be the most interesting thirty days of my life.
Even if it kills me.
Or if she does. Which would not be a bad way to go.
3
KENZIE
The bangingon my door sounds like someone's trying to break it down with a sledgehammer. Or maybe that's just my head, which feels like it got run over by whatever large animals they have on this godforsaken ranch.
"UP AND AT 'EM, CITY GIRL!"
Trent. Of course it's Trent. Because who else would be yelling at—I squint at my phone—4:45 in the morning?
"I'm up!" Big fat lie. I'm still horizontal and seriously considering why my aunt hated me so much that she dumped this ranch on me. I mean, the woman barely knewme.
"You've got five minutes before I come in there and drag you out myself."
The thought of Trent manhandling me out of bed shouldn't make my stomach flutter the way it just did. It's probably just hunger. Or fear. Definitely not attraction to a grumpy cowboy who apparently doesn't know how to sleep past dawn.
I roll out of bed and immediately step on something sharp. "Motherfucker!"
"Four minutes," Trent calls through the door, and I swear I can hear him smirking.
I throw on yesterday's jeans—which already smell like a barn—and a T-shirt that says "But First, Coffee" which feels both appropriate and like it might get me murdered. My hair goes into what I'm generously calling a messy bun but probably looks more like a bird's nest and probably smells like one too.
When I stumble outside, Trent's waiting by the porch looking disgustingly awake and put-together. His shirt is pressed. Who presses shirts at four-forty-five a.m.? Psychopaths, that's who.
"You're late," he says.
"I'm literally standing here within your five-minute deadline."
"Four minutes and forty seconds. Ranch time means?—"
"Early, I know. Gavin explained your weird temporal physics yesterday." I yawn so wide my jawcracks. "What fresh hell do you have planned for me today?"
Before he can answer, Billy appears from nowhere like an eager puppy, holding a mug that's steaming in the cool morning air.
"I made you coffee!" He thrusts it at me with so much enthusiasm that some sloshes over the edge. "It's, um, it's the good stuff. Not the paint stripper Gavin makes."
I take a sip and almost cry. It's still terrible—turns out, there's no "good stuff" on this ranch—but it's caffeine and Billy looks so hopeful that I force a smile.
"Thanks, Billy. You're a lifesaver."
