Page 4 of The Rancher's Runaway Bride
Carson shrugs, unbothered, and goes back to drowning his pancakes in syrup, humming to himself. Duke perks up at the sound of the syrup bottle, ever hopeful for a drop to hit the floor.
But Layla’s laugh lingers in the air, and when she glances at me, there’s something in her expression that sticks—a mix of amusement and something else. Something softer. Hurt, maybe. It doesn’t sit right, the idea that I might’ve put that look on her face. I can’t help but wonder what a woman like her has been through to bring her here, to my ranch after the spoiled life she surely lived before now. I don’t have the heart to ask, not yet anyway, but I spent most of last night tossing and turning and thinking about my new pretty, houseguest.
She clears her throat and gestures to the table. “Sit down. Eat. They’re not that bad, I promise.”
I raise an eyebrow but comply, sliding into the chair across from Carson. Layla plates a stack of pancakes and sets them in front of me with a flourish, clearly trying to make up for the earlier awkwardness. “Bon appétit,” she says with a mock bow.
I poke at the pancakes with my fork, cutting off a bite and examining it like it might bite back. “Not as burnt as I expected,” I remark.
“High praise coming from you,” she quips, rolling her eyes as she sits down beside Carson.
The first bite is… not terrible. Too sweet, with a hint of char, but edible. Carson digs in enthusiastically, syrup dripping downhis chin. Layla watches him with a soft smile, and for a moment, the tension eases.
“You’re good with him,” I find myself saying before I can stop the words.
Her eyes flick to mine, surprised. “Thanks. He’s a great kid.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, glancing at Carson, who’s now making a syrup moat around his pancakes. “He is.”
The quiet stretches, comfortable this time, as we all eat. Layla hums under her breath, some upbeat tune that I don’t recognize, but it fills the space in a way that doesn’t feel invasive. I sip my coffee and let it wash over me, a strange warmth settling in my chest.
After breakfast, Carson bolts outside to check on Duke, leaving me and Layla alone in the kitchen. She starts gathering plates, stacking them precariously high.
“You don’t have to—” I start.
“I’ve got it,” she says firmly, cutting me off. “Consider it my rent.”
I watch as she scrubs the syrup-streaked plates, her movements efficient but still a little clumsy. The flannel shifts on her frame, the hem brushing her thighs, and I tear my gaze away, cursing myself.
“What?” she asks, catching me staring.
“Nothing,” I mutter, pushing back my chair. “Just don’t break anything.”
She smirks, tossing a dishtowel over her shoulder. “Relax, Cal. Your kitchen’s safe with me.”
I’m not so sure about that—or anything else—but for now, I let it slide.
I walk out to the barn with something like hope in my step. The morning sun cuts through the thin gap in the barn doors, golden streaks of light falling over the mustangs’ glossy coats. Their restless shuffling fills the air, mingling with the rich scentof hay and leather. I focus on the task at hand, sliding a saddle into place, the repetitive motion grounding me.
I don’t hear her approach until she speaks.
“Good morning, sunshine.” Layla’s voice is syrupy sweet, laced with sarcasm.
I glance over my shoulder, and there she is, standing in the doorway in a pair of my old boots that look way too big and leggings that hug curves I shouldn’t be noticing. Her arms are crossed, and her polished nails tap against her bicep like she’s daring me to say something.
“You lost?” I grumble, turning back to the mustang.
“Nope,” she chirps. “I thought I’d see what a day in the life of a grumpy rancher looks like.”
I don’t bother hiding my sigh. “It’s not a spectator sport.”
“I’m not here to spectate,” she shoots back, striding into the barn like she owns the place. “I’m here to help.”
The word “help” hangs between us, thick with doubt.
“You sure about that?” I ask, leading the mustang out of its stall. “Because helping here isn’t exactly brunch on Fifth Avenue.”
Her smile tightens, but she doesn’t back down. “Try me.”
