Page 1 of Claiming Cowboy
Chapter 1 - Paige
“So Oliver has this friend…” Maya says while casually frosting another treat, her voice dripping with fake innocence. She keeps her back to me, but I swear she can feel my glare burning holes in her sweater.
“Don’t give me that look.”
“I’m just standing here, appreciating our friendship and thinking about spending more time with you. That’s all,” I say, grabbing three loaves of rye bread and handing them to a customer with my best polite smile. Once they’re gone, I busy myself wiping down the counter like my life depends on it.
Maya snorts. “Yeah, nothing screams ‘just friendship’ like you scrubbing the counter as if it insulted your mother.”
I roll my eyes. “I know how these conversations go. You try to sell me on dating like it’s a new pastry special.”
“Well, maybe it is.” She winks over her shoulder. “Limited edition, only available while supplies last. Comes with great arms and a smile that could melt frosting.”
I groan. “Maya, I’ve been in Aspenbrook a year. That’s not enough time to—”
“Exactly enough time,” she interrupts. “Twelve months, four seasons, fifty-two weeks of you avoiding men like a celiac with gluten!”
I snicker despite myself. “Harsh.”
“A year is a good time frame. And this guy? He’s practically made for you. Quiet, sweet, down to earth, always hanging around the bookstore, likes romance novels…” She ticks the points off on her frosting-covered fingers.
“Wow. A man who reads. How rare.”
“Don’t sass me,” she shoots back. “It’s not like he travels all the time, or has scandals attached to his name. He’s uncomplicated!”
I shake my head, laughing under my breath. “Uncomplicated sounds suspicious. People don’t advertise themselves as uncomplicated unless they’re hiding something.”
Maya grins wickedly. “Yeah. Like maybe a secret obsession with shy bakers who don’t know how gorgeous they are.”
“I appreciate your boyfriend and you so much,” I say, finally meeting her warm brown eyes. “I do, Maya. I just ... I’m happy as things are. I don’t want to rock the boat and have less time with you, my amazing job and my books.”
She pouts, then hugs me tightly. “Someone as sweet as you shouldn’t hole up in your apartment all the time. There’s so much more to appreciate in life and enjoy. I hate the idea of you not being as happy as you could be.”
“I know,” I murmur.
“Just tell me if I’m pushing too hard.”
I won’t. She always says that, and I never do. Even when her comments about me being pretty and sweet and a catch makeme glance in the mirror and wonder what she sees—where all I notice are oversized curves, five extra pounds I keep meaning to lose, simple brown hair that slips free from my ponytail, and hazel eyes that don’t feel remarkable.
But I don’t tell her it’s too much. Because she cares. She’s genuine. She makes time for me. And the pace of this life, of working alongside her, feels so wonderful compared to the chaos I left behind in the city.
There, being twenty-four, well ... twenty-three at the time, meant going out every weekend, seeing friends when schedules shockingly aligned, online dating or being set up by friends with crazy strangers. It was go-go-go and slowing down or taking a break was seen as lazy or letting life slip by.
“Do you have a list?” she asks, interrupting my thoughts.
I blink a few times. “Um… a what?”
“Come on, you might have just moved here eleven months ago, but you’ve dated before, right? With those curves, your sweet face, those cheekbones, those big eyes—you must have dated,” she insists. “And that means you have a list of what you like in a guy. I could start looking for you.”
Maya doesn’t normally pry, but today she isn’t surrendering the matter easily. I sigh softly. “I’ve had some… boyfriends, but it’s been minimal.”
“So flings?”
“No.” My face warms under her stare. I’m not the type of woman most men fantasize about, and I know that. I have more to offer once someone actually knows me. “I’ve had boyfriends, but it’s always been… safe, I guess. Careful. Like it never really went deeper than the surface.”
Maya’s face twists in confusion.
I’m insecure talking about it. I’ve heard it all before: that I’m a prude who needs to loosen up, that I should be more confident, that my old friends wished they had half my curves to reel men in. They’d “own it.”
