Page 78 of My Cowboy Trouble
"You are being an ass most of the time."
"I know." He laughs, short and rough. "I'm trying to protect myself. From wanting something I can't keep. From caring about someone who's going to leave."
"Who says I'm leaving?"
"You do. Every day. You count down like you're serving a prison sentence."
"Maybe I'm not counting down to leaving. Maybe I'm counting down to something else."
"Like what?"
"Like figuring out why I don't want to leave." I reach up to cover his hand with mine, pressing it more firmly against my face. "Like figuring out what this thing is between us. Like figuring out if you're ever going tostop treating me like I'm temporary and start treating me like I'm here."
He stares at me for a long moment, his eyes searching my face like he's trying to memorize every detail. Then he steps back, picking up his coffee mug with hands that aren't quite steady.
"We should finish the morning chores," he says, his voice carefully neutral. "The horses need hay."
And just like that, the moment shatters. He's back to being the responsible ranch manager, and I'm back to being the temporary city girl who doesn't know which end of a horse bites.
Except now, I know he wants me to stay. Now, I know he thinks about me when he can't sleep. Now, I know he wants to find out what I taste like everywhere else, which is honestly the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me in a barn. Or anywhere, for that matter.
"Right," I say, bending to pick up the pitchfork. "Horses. Hay. Very important."
"Very important," he agrees, but his eyes are on my ass as I bend over, and when I straighten up, his coffee mug is back on the post and he's looking at me like I'm something he wants to devour.
"Trent?"
"Yeah?"
"For the record, I want to find out what you taste like everywhere else too."
His sharp breath is audible from three feet away,and I grin as I push the wheelbarrow toward the next stall. This is going to be an interesting morning.
We workin charged silence for the next hour, hyperaware of each other's every movement. When Trent reaches for a feed bucket, I track the flex of muscles in his forearms. When I bend to pick up scattered hay, I feel his eyes on me. It's the most sexually frustrated I've ever been while mucking horse stalls, which is saying something since I never thought mucking horse stalls could be even remotely sexual.
I'm proven wrong when Trent demonstrates the proper way to distribute horse stall bedding, something I never knew existed ‘til now. His movements are efficient and controlled, and somehow watching him spread straw becomes one of the hottest things I've seen since Gavin fixed the barn roof shirtless. There's something about competence that's incredibly sexy, and Trent Mercer is competent at everything he does.
And I meaneverything.
"Like this," he says, showing me how to fluff the bedding so it's even. His hands are steady and sure, and I find myself thinking about those hands on my skin. "You want good coverage, but not so thick that it's wasteful."
"Got it. Even coverage. Not wasteful. Like makeup," I mutter, concentrating on the task. I grab a pitchforkand try to copy his movements, but my technique is clearly lacking because he steps behind me, his hands covering mine on the handle.
"Lighter touch," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. "Let the tool do the work."
His chest is pressed against my back, solid and warm, and I can feel every breath he takes. This is exactly how it started with Asher—this casual touching that quickly becomes not casual at all. But with Trent, it feels different. More loaded. More dangerous.
"Better," he says when I manage to spread the straw without sending it flying everywhere. But he doesn't step away, and neither do I.
We stay like that for a moment, his hands still covering mine, his body heat seeping through my tank top. I can feel his heart beating against my shoulder blade, fast and unsteady.
"Trent," I whisper.
"I know." His voice is rough, strained. "We should?—"
"We should what?"
"Work. We should work."
