Page 24 of My Cowboy Trouble
His jaw tightens, and I can see him counting to ten in his head. Maybe twenty. "What were you doing, banging around in the kitchen last night?"
Oh. That. Yeah.
I shrug to make light of one of my most bafflingquirks. Baffling to other people. Makes perfect sense to me, though.
"It relaxes me to organize things. Anything. So I went to town on the spice cabinet."
Even though Trent's face goes red, I'm pretty sure he's about to thank me. "Wait 'til you see it.” I smile proudly. “Everything's in alphabetical order, labels facing front. Not a thing out of place.”
He looks down at his feet, shifting like he's stalling for time. "Those spices… were exactly where we wanted them to be. They've been kept in their same spots for years and we know where to find everything we need?—"
"Oh really? Because it was a huge freaking mess and I personally think I did you a big favor?—"
With a grunt, he starts to say something but cuts himself off. He just looks at the horizon, as if to avoid looking at me. "The horses need feeding."
"Well, I'm sure they do. It is morning after all. And I will feed them. After I finish my coffee." I take a deliberately slow sip, maintaining eye contact. "Can I offer you a coffee, Trent? Even tyrants should be well-caffeinated before terrorizing their staff."
"You're not staff. You're the owner."
"Then I'm giving myself a coffee break. I'll give you one too, if you're nice to me."
"That's not how this works."
"Isn't it?" I lean against the porch railing, noting how his eyes track the movement. "Because fromwhere I'm standing, it seems like you've forgotten who actually owns this place."
Something flashes in his eyes—anger, maybe, or something else—and he steps closer. Close enough that I can smell whatever soap he uses, something clean and masculine that has no business making my stomach flutter.
"You want to talk about ownership?" His voice has dropped to that dangerous quiet that makes smart people run. Too bad I've never been accused of being smart. "You've been here four days. Four. Days. I've been here my entire life. I've bled for this ranch, sweated for it, gave up?—"
He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.
"Gave up what?" I ask, genuinely curious now.
"Nothing. Just get to work." He turns to leave, then stops. "And Kenzie? That coffee you're drinking? I made it. You're welcome."
He stalks off toward the barn, leaving me standing there with my mouth open and my coffee suddenly tasting like crow.
Well, shit.
I follow him to the barn, finding him already deep in morning chores, moving with the kind of efficiency that comes from years of practice. He doesn't look up when I enter, just points to a pile of feed buckets.
"Horses first. Two scoops each. Whiskey gets a special supplement—the green container. Don't forget to check water."
"Good morning to you too," I mutter, grabbing the buckets.
"Morning was fifteen minutes ago."
"You're really hung up on this time thing."
"Time management is the difference between a successful ranch and bankruptcy."
"And here I thought it was the difference between normal people and obsessive-compulsive dictators."
He finally looks at me, and there's something almost like amusement in his eyes. Almost. "You always this mouthy in the morning?"
"Only when someone interrupts my coffee time." I start measuring out feed, trying to remember which horse is which. They all look the same to me—large, brown, possibly plotting my death. "Which one's Whiskey again?"
"The one that looks like he wants to kill you."
