Page 18 of Her Grumpy Cowboy
“Exactly.”
Angel laughs and hands her a steaming mug from the side counter.“Try this and tell me you still hate mornings.”
Jamie takes a sip, eyes closing in dramatic appreciation.“Okay, I hate mornings slightly less.”Her eyes slide over to where I’m standing near the counter, nursing the coffee Angel handed me.“Good night?”she asks casually, her smirk anything but innocent.
Angel nearly drops the muffin tray.“What?Yes, I mean, fine.Normal.Completely average night.”
Jamie hums as if she doesn’t believe a word.“Uh-huh.Just saying I wouldn’t mind someone who looks like that making me breakfast too.”
Angel makes a strangled noise and turns back to the register, muttering something about traitors and teenagers.
I sip my coffee and don’t say a word.But I’m grinning into the mug like a man who’s been handed proof that she thought about me last night.Maybe still is.The blush on her cheeks isn’t from the espresso machine heat.It’s from me.
Jamie heads toward the prep area, already rolling up her sleeves.Angel finishes counting the till, eyes flicking up now and then to check the espresso machine warming behind her.
It’s not loud, it’s not rushed—it’s calm, capable hands setting the day in motion.Watching her here, surrounded by the little world she’s built, it’s easy to see why people keep coming back.
Once the morning rush starts, I make myself useful.Fix a sticky hinge.Mend the wobble in the front table leg.Not because I was asked, but because touching the things she uses every day feels like leaving pieces of myself behind in her world so she doesn’t forget I was here.
Mostly I watch her do what she does: hold a dozen conversations without dropping a single thread; remember that Mrs.Crowley’s granddaughter hates nutmeg; tuck a free cookie in a bag for a boy whose eyes are older than they should be.
I shouldn’t want her this much while she’s measuring syrup and frothing milk, but here I am—aching like I’m nineteen again.Watching the way her hips sway as she moves behind the counter.Watching her bite her bottom lip when she’s thinking.I don’t just want to kiss her—I want toconsumeher.
“I should head back to the ranch,” I say once things calm down.“Having supper with the boys in the bunkhouse.But I’ll swing by after—make sure the place is locked up and your power’s holding with the weather coming in.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I want to,” I growl, holding her gaze.
“Okay, Mr.Grumpypants,” she huffs.“Far be it from me to object when you’re being all caveman, beating your chest and grunting ‘me want to.’”
A smile tugs at the edges of my mouth.Fuck, she’s adorable.
I reach out and run the backs of my knuckles down her cheek, slow and deliberate.Her skin is warm, velvet-soft.She leans into it, just slightly, and my pulse thunders.“I’ll see you later.”
Her eyes soften.“Okay.”
I head for the door.The bell jingles as I step out into the cold, and the wind hits my face like a reminder: keep it steady.Keep it smart.But I’m already planning how fast I can get back here before I’ve even left.
* * *
Back at the ranch, there’s a busted fence line behind the barn that Tyler’s been avoiding for a week.I spend the morning hammering in new boards, talking him through post hole repairs while he shrugs and mutters and tries to act like he’s not listening.
But he is.More than he lets on.
He watches how I line up the posts.How I check the tension in the wire.He asks a question once, as if it slipped out by accident, and I answer like it’s nothing.No lectures.Just the facts.
By midday, Tyler is digging without being told, though he still won’t make eye contact.That’s fine.Progress doesn’t have to be loud.Some things take time.Like trust.Like breaking down the instinct to run when something feels too good.Which reminds me of the way Angel touched me last night.How it still echoes in my skin.
Tyler reminds me of myself at that age—closed off, prickly, waiting for someone to give up on him so he can say he saw it coming.Kids like him make me think about it—about paying forward what I was given.About having a reason to stick.
And then there’s Angel.
If a man’s going to stay, it’s for a woman like her.Stubborn, smart, brave as hell.Too used to doing everything alone.Steady where it counts and soft in a way that wrecks me.The kind of woman you don't walk away from unless you're a fool.
Later, I help Christopher haul firewood to the main house, check on the generator, and swap out a few old bulbs in the barn that burned out last week.The weather’s shifting—sky heavy, air cold in a way that means business.I can feel the storm pressing in by late afternoon.
I head to the bunkhouse for supper with the boys, boots caked in half-frozen mud and shoulders tight from the work.It’s a tiredness that feels earned.
