Page 9 of Snowed In with the Wrong Cowboy
“I’m not cute.”
“You’re right,” I say, stepping a little closer. “Cute’s not the word.”
My gaze drags down her body, then back up to meet her eyes. “Beautiful. That’s the word.”
She goes still, like a deer who just spotted a wolf.
“Don’t,” she says.
“Don’t what? Tell the truth?”
She scoffs, but her shoulders are stiff, her fingers clenching around the wooden spoon in her hand.
“You’re just trying to mess with me,” she says, turning back to the stove, like that will put space between us. It doesn’t.
“Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe I mean every word. And that scares you.”
She doesn’t say anything, but I see the way she swallows and the quick glance toward the corner like she’s trying not to react.
“Dinner’s almost ready.”
We sitacross from each other at the kitchen table. She eats. Slowly, methodically. Like she’s trying not to enjoy it.
I don’t touch my plate. Not because I’m not hungry. Because she’s far more interesting than food.
I lean back in my chair, ankle resting on my knee, elbow hooked over the backrest. I watch her. The way her throat works when she swallows and how she licks sauce from her bottom lip.
She catches me staring. Freezes mid-chew. “What?”
I shrug. “Nothing.”
“You’re staring at me.”
“You’re in front of me. Where else would I stare?”
She shifts in her chair. “This is weird.”
I lift a brow. “What is?”
“This. Us. Eating dinner like this isn’t, like we’re not…”
“Like you’re not supposed to hate me?” I offer.
She glances away. Stabs her fork into a piece of macaroni.
“Do you?” I ask. “Hate me?”
She doesn’t look up. “I don’t know you well enough to hate you.”
“That’s not an answer.”
She sets down her fork. “You're Mackenzie's brother who screwed over his family. She's my best friend. I’m trapped here with you. And you're sitting here looking at me like you’re planning something.”
“I am planning something.”
Her jaw tightens. “What.”
I lean forward to get under her skin. “I’m planning to finish this food, drink another whiskey… and go to bed. With you.”
