Page 8 of Coming Home to My Cowboy
“And yes, I could technically stay here alone,” I continue, giving him a little half-smile. “I live by myself in the city, after all. My old roommate just moved in with her boyfriend, so I’m used to having the place to myself.”
I lift my gaze to his, honest and warm. “But I didn’t want to be alone here. Not if I didn’t have to be.”
His eyes hold mine for a beat, unreadable but intense.
“You don’t like the idea of settling for someone just to have company,” he says. It isn’t a question. His eyes stay on me, slow and steady. “Not even in the city?”
I shake my head and move slowly across the room toward him, pretending I have some logical reason to cross the space when we both know I don’t. “I’ve dated. Talked to guys. Tried.” My voice softens. “But I haven’t met anyone who feels worth building a life with.”
The tail end of a string of lights drops from his hand. “You’re too young for that anyway.”
“I’m twenty-three,” I remind, picking up the string of lights and holding them. “Some women are married at this point. I’m … waiting.”
“For the one?”
“Something like that,” I say, not looking away from him. His gaze clashes with mine, curiosity meeting determination. A question meeting an answer that doesn’t need to be said. “I’ve heard it takes guys longer to catch up.”
He watches me for an extra beat, until my face floods with heat. I clear my throat. “It’s not freezing anymore. The snow is even melting. Apparently, we’re going to have a hot Christmas.”
“You brought the heat with you.”
“From the city? Not likely.”
“Didn’t saywhereyou brought it from, Layla,” he replies.
My mouth dries as my panties get wet, but I keep talking, “Maybe it’s because you’re finding more and more reasons to be shirtless and mother nature wants more.”
He chuckles, actually chuckles. “So, I’m to blame for global warming?”
“At least partially to blame. You… and the billionaires,” I tease.
He rolls his eyes.
I hand him the lights, but don’t move fast enough. His entire side brushes my front. My nipples harden, my breathing shallows, and when he nearly drops the lights to wrap his arm around me to make sure I don’t fall, I might actually moan at the contact alone. He pants as he watches me and I try to stop breathing entirely so his cologne stops dancing in my head.
“I need someone like you full time … I think,” I breathe.
“Is that what you need?”
“Yeah. You … are you …” The word‘available’almost slips between my lips, but I catch it by biting my tongue. “Up for the job?”
“I’ve lasted two days,” he comments, his eyes sharpening, jaw tightening, throat bobbing. “I’m up for plenty where you’re involved.”
“Even if it’s hard?”
“It’s often hard. Doesn’t mean it’s a bad thing.”
One man shouldn’t be every fantasy rolled into one. Seeing this commanding, intense side of him is different than his constant presence. Granted, that spreads across a room and threatens to suck the air out of my lungs, but touching him, knowing he’s looking at me and only me … it’s overwhelming.
“You need to eat,” he decides. “If you’re this close to falling.”
“Yeah,” I whisper, eying his mouth while gently tugging his tank-top. “Filling my mouth sounds really good.”
I think he groans, but I don’t know if I justwantto hear it, or if the sound actually leaves his throat.Is he vibrating or am I shaking?It’s impossible to tell.
Suddenly, he breaks the connection, looking at his hand twisted in the string of Christmas lights. I nod once. “They’re hot, I’ll … I can get you some ice.”
“No need.”
