Page 9 of Frosty in Flannel
And the whole time, I was acutely aware of her presence. The way she moved. The sound of her breathing. The little furrow that appeared between her brows when she was concentrating.
By the time we were done, Wildfire was calm but I was wound tight as a spring.
“That was amazing,” Libby said as we stepped out of the pen. “The way you read him, the way you adjust your body language based on his cues... you’re a natural at this.”
“I just pay attention.”
“That’s more than most people do.” She leaned against the fence, looking at me with those sharp blue eyes. “You said you’re just a grunt. But that’s not true, is it? You’re good at this. Really good.”
I shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. “I work with what I know.”
“Which is?”
“Damage,” I said quietly. “I know what it’s like to be broken. So does he. Makes it easier to understand each other.”
Her expression softened. “You’re not broken, Beckett.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes. I do.” She held my gaze for a few seconds that seemed like eternity. I had to fight the urge to close the distance between us, thoughts of pulling her close… kissing her… tasting her… running through my head. My body hardening. This was a bad idea. She was here to work. I was here to work. That was it.
But the way she was looking at me...
“I should check the other horses,” I said roughly, stepping back. “Make sure everyone got fed.”
“Right. Yeah.” She blinked, the moment breaking. “I’ll... I’ll go over my notes. Figure out a training plan.”
I nodded and walked away before I could do something stupid.
But even as I put distance between us, I could feel her watching me.
And I knew—without a doubt—that working together was going to be the hardest thing I’d ever done.
Because every time I looked at her, I wanted things I had no business wanting.
Things I didn’t deserve.
But wanted anyway.
Chapter Three
Libby
I wasn’t looking for a man when I came to Montana. Especially not one who looked like he’d been carved out of battle scars and bad intentions.
But Beckett had a way of getting under my skin without even trying. Hell, maybe it was because he wasn’t trying. Because he didn’t chase or charm or flirt. He just watched. Listened. Glared sometimes—but even that felt more like defense than offense.
I was used to that kind of armor.
I just wasn’t used to wanting to touch it.
I wasn’t the kind of woman who dissolved into a puddle of want just because a man was attractive. Relationships, even sex, didn’t come easy for me. Most men either overlooked curvy girls or treated them like a novelty—another notch on a bedpost.
But with Beckett?
God help me, with Beckett I couldn’t think straight.
Every morning, we’d worked together in the round pen. Professional. Focused. Building on the foundation he’d laid with Wildfire, introducing new techniques, pushing the mustang just a little further each day.
