Page 43 of My Cowboy Trouble
She laughs quietly. "I told you. I don't lose."
"No," I agree, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "You don't."
"Night, cowboys," she murmurs, already drifting off.
"Night, city girl," I whisper back.
Minutes later, Kenzie's sound asleep, snoring like a girl, curled between us like she belongs here. Like this is normal. Like we haven't just complicated everything beyond recognition.
"Think she'll stay?" Asher asks quietly.
"No," I say, because someone has to be realistic.
"Maybe," Gavin says, because he's always been an optimist.
But as I lie there, listening to her breathe, feeling her warm against my side, I let myself imagine what it would be like if she did. If this became real instead of temporary. If twenty-three days could somehow become forever.
It's a dangerous thought.
It's also the only thought I have until I finally fall asleep, her hand in mine, pretending tomorrow won't come.
7
KENZIE
I wakeup to water dripping on my face, which is not the gentle morning-after awakening a girl hopes for.
Not that I was hoping for anything specific.
Not that I'm thinking about last night.
Not that my entire body isn't one delicious ache that reminds me exactly what happened every time I try to move.
Fuck.
I shift in bed and immediately regret it. There are muscles protesting that I didn't even know I had. Beard burn in places that are going to require some creative explanation if anyone asks. And I'm pretty sure there's a handprint-shaped bruise on my hip from when Gavin got a little too enthusiastic.
Another drop hits me square in the forehead, and I open my eyes to see a growing water stain on the ceiling of the guesthouse, where I retreated to after the guys were hogging my bed. Of course the roof would pick now—the morning after I had mind-blowing, life-altering, probably-ruined-everything sex with all three cowboys who run this ranch—to start leaking.
Thunder crashes overhead, rattling the windows, and the drip becomes a steady stream. I scramble out of bed, trying to ignore the very specific soreness between my legs, and grab a trash can from the bathroom.
Standing hurts. Walking hurts. Everything hurts. In the best worst way possible, of course.
I'm positioning the trash can under the leak, wearing yesterday's tank top and underwear (because I definitely didn't trudge to the guesthouse with all my clothes on—who’s going to see me aside from Sir Clucks?), when someone knocks on the door.
"Yeah?" I call, not moving because I'm suddenly very aware that I probably look like I've been thoroughly fucked. Because I have been. Multiple times. By multiple people.
"It's Trent."
Of course it is. Because the universe has a sick sense of humor.
"Um, just a second!"
I try to finger-comb my hair into something thatdoesn't scream "I had three men's hands in this last night."
I open the door to find him standing there looking perfectly put together at six a.m. His hair's damp from the rain, his shirt already soaked through, and he's got that familiar stern expression on his face.
Except now I know what his face looks like when he's losing control. When he's saying my name like a prayer. When he's?—
