Page 9 of My Apocalypse Cowboy
"I'm supervising."
"You're staring. There's a difference."
She's gotten better at the ranch work, I'll give her that. Still jumps when Bertha gets too close, but she's not afraid anymore. Treats the animals with the careful respect they deserve while maintaining the authority they need to see.
It's sexy as hell watching her figure it out.
"Post needs to be deeper," I tell her.
"I know."
"Want help?"
"No." She wipes sweat from her forehead, leaving a streak of dirt across her cheek. "I've got it."
She doesn't have it. The post is crooked, too shallow, and about to fall over. But she's so determined to prove herself that I don't have the heart to take over.
Instead, I lean against the fence and watch her work. She's traded her torn city clothes for some of my old shirts and a pair of jeans that are too big but functional. The shirt clings when she bends over, and I have to actively work not to stare at the curve of her ass.
I'm failing spectacularly.
"Joseph." She turns around, catching me red-handed. "Seriously?"
"I'm admiring your technique."
"My technique at fence building?"
"Among other things."
She blushes, which just makes her prettier. Three days of good food and regular sleep have put color back in her cheeks, andshe's starting to look less like a refugee and more like the woman who had the guts to try stealing my horse.
The woman who kissed me like the world was ending.
The woman who pushed me away before we could finish what we started.
"I should finish this," she says, but she doesn't turn around.
Neither of us moves.
The silence stretches, full of tension and possibilities and the memory of what happened against the barn wall. I want to kiss her again. Want to find out if she still tastes the same, if she'll make those little sounds when I touch her. Want to finish what she stopped.
But I said okay. And I meant it.
"Rebecca," I start.
"Work first," she says quickly, turning back to the fence post.
Right. Work first. Because she needs more time, and I'm giving it to her.
Even if the waiting might actually kill me.
The post slides into place with a satisfying thunk, and she steps back with a triumphant grin. "There. Perfect."
It's not perfect. It's crooked and wobbly and won't last a week. But her smile is so proud, so genuinely happy, that I don't have the heart to tell her.
"We should head back to the barn," I say. "Storm's coming in."
She looks up at the clear blue sky, then back at me with raised eyebrows. "What storm?"
