Page 26 of My Cowboy Trouble
"How do you know?"
"Because he's bloated and looking smug." He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in ways that shouldn't be attractive but absolutely are. "And youdidn't latch Pepper's stall properly. She's been visiting everyone."
I look over to see a small mare casually hanging out in what I'm pretty sure is supposed to be an empty stall.
"She seemed lonely."
"She's a horse, not a therapy patient."
"Animals have feelings too. Maybe if you weren't such an emotional robot, you'd understand that."
"I understand that horses need structure and routine, not someone projecting their feelings onto them."
"I'm not projecting!"
"You told Whiskey about your coffee ritual."
"You were eavesdropping?"
"It's a barn, not a confessional. Voices carry." He grabs another rope from the wall, testing its weight. "Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"You need to learn how to handle a rope."
"That sounds like a line from a bad porno."
He stops so abruptly, I almost run into his back. When he turns, his face is blank, but there's color high on his cheekbones.
"It's a basic ranch skill," he says slowly, like he's explaining to a child. "If you can't rope, you can't work cattle."
"Right. Cattle. The things that moo."
"Jesus Christ." He continues walking,leading me to a small corral where several practice dummies are set up. They look like sad scarecrow versions of cows. "We'll start with stationary targets."
"They have horns."
"Very observant."
"I'm just saying, seems like mixed signals. Are we roping them, or are they going to gore us?"
"Both, if you're not careful." He hands me the rope. "The key is in the wrist."
"Everything's in the wrist with you people."
"You people?"
"Cowboys. Ranch types. Men who think everything can be solved with proper wrist action."
He stares at me for a long moment, and I realize how that sounded. My face goes hot.
"Just... show me how to do the thing," I mutter.
His lips twitch as he moves behind me, adjusting my grip on the rope. Unlike yesterday with Asher, Trent keeps a healthy distance between us, barely touching except where absolutely necessary. Which somehow makes it worse, because I'm hyperaware of every point of almost-contact.
"You want to keep your elbow up," he says, his voice close to my ear. "And when you release, it's a smooth motion. Like you're painting a circle in the air."
"I failed art class."
