Page 25 of Her Cowboy Santa
“He’s so good to Danny, so patient,” she says right as her toast pops up. “How old is he?”
“Vet thinks he’s two years old about now. I found him on the side of the road when he was around six months. All ribs and sad eyes. When I opened my truck door, he bounded right in. Just like he’d been waiting for me.” I shake my head. “He wasn’t wearing a collar or chipped, so I figured finders keepers should apply.”
By that logic, she and Danny are mine too. It seems obvious to me that I should be allowed to keep them. They got into my truck, same as Rudy.
“Oh, by the way,” Callie says, “you got a delivery.”
I frown, not sure what would have been delivered.
Then I remember that Hunter overnighted me a box of my jams. I hold up my hand. “Don’t eat that toast yet. I have just the thing for it.”
I stumble to the front door to find a small cardboard box on the porch steps. I lift it, noting that none of the jars make a sound, which means Hunter must have followed my packaging instructions perfectly.
As I step into the threshold, I hear the distinct sound of an engine.
I glance over my shoulder to see a sports car a few hundred feet from the house. It doesn’t look like it belongs here. But this time of year, there are so many guys coming and going from the Naughty List Ranch that I don’t pay too much attention.
Whoever it is, I’m sure they’ll find their way to Mary and Christopher when they need to. I close the door behind me with my boot and walk into the kitchen.
“What do you have there?” Callie asks, sipping from her own mug.
I set the box on the kitchen island and grab my pocketknife. I step back so she can examine what’s inside.
She peers into the box. “Jam.”
She lifts out a glass jar with a pretty simple label that reads strawberry. “Who made these?”
“Me,” I answer, feeling a rush of pride. I like seeing my jars clutched in her hands, and I really like the look of awe on her face right now. “These jams are from fruit I grew on my farm. When I lived on the Naughty List Ranch, Mary made fantastic jams. I started using her recipes and improving them a couple of years ago. I have them just about perfect.”
“I’ll be the judge of that, mister,” she says and pops the top off the jam.
She puts a spoonful in her mouth and lets out a groan that has me getting hard because all I want to do is tackle her and slide into her wet heat.
“I’d like to sell my jams,” I explain. “I want to pair them with the perfect pastries. Maybe biscuits or something. I tried to hire a baker, but I haven’t found anyone for the job.”
She looks like she’s about to say something, but there’s a knock on the door. I think of the fancy sports car I saw earlier.
“I’ll get that,” she says, and sashays out of the room.
I watch her hips move. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of that perfect sway. I follow her into the living room just in time for her to swing the door open.
She gasps at the man standing on the front porch. He’s wearing an expensive suit, something bespoke if I had to guess. He definitely looks out of place standing there.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, at the same time I demand, “Who the hell are you?”
The man steps into the living room uninvited and looks at Callie with a smirk.
“I’m her husband,” he says, full of confidence and swagger.
I don’t believe this bastard for a second. Callie is nothing like my ex-girlfriend. There’s not a lying bone in her body.
Callie’s gaze instantly snaps to mine, concern on her face. “We are divorced.”
“I know that,” I tell her, my own voice ringing with quiet confidence.
I can hear the sounds of Danny’s laughter and Rudy’s nails clicking on the floor in the kitchen. I’m glad he’s not old enough to see this or hear it. I’m glad that Rudy is in there with him, standing guard over his new friend.
Callie turns her attention back to Corey, pointing with her index finger. “You know we’re not together anymore.”
