Page 20 of Tied Up In Tinsel
There was the obvious—her short, curvy frame, the cascade of auburn hair that looked like it would catch fire in the right light, and those sharp blue eyes that could cut a man to pieces. But it was more than that. It was her grit. The way she worked herself to the bone to give her daughter a good life. The way she spoke to Ruby with warmth and authority all wrapped up in one voice.
It was… dangerous. This pull I felt toward her. I was here for a job, but that promise felt like a thin wire about to snap.
I shook the last bit of water off a plate and set it in the drying rack just as her voice came from behind me.
“Are you kidding me?”
I turned, a smirk tugging at my lips before I even saw her. She stood with her arms folded across her chest, hip popped out, one eyebrow arched like she’d caught me in the middle of a heist.
“Come help me then,” I called over my shoulder. “You can dry the last few since you’re so hell-bent on working yourself into the ground.”
“I’m not working myself into the ground,” she said, stepping forward. She plucked the dish towel from the counter like she was snatching a weapon. “I just don’t need you to do everything.”
“You worked all day,” I countered. “And you’re clearly exhausted. Let me handle it.”
“You watched Ruby all day and cooked. It’s only fair I clean up.”
I gave her a look. “It’s weird for you to accept help, isn’t it?”
She let out a huff, drying off a plate with a little more force than necessary. “Huh. Didn’t know rodeo clowns doubled as armchair therapists.”
That caught me off guard and pulled a deep laugh out of my chest. I tilted my head back, the sound filling the quiet kitchen. When I looked at her again, she was smiling too, though she tried to hide it.
“I’m here to help you, Annie,” I said, my voice softer now. “So let me.”
I finished the last dish, set it in the rack, and dried my hands. Turning, I leaned back against the counter and watched her work. There was something mesmerizing about the way she moved—efficient, sure, but graceful too, like she didn’t even realize the small, unconscious ways she drew a man’s attention.
“Fine,” she said finally, setting the last plate on the counter. “But no more buying Ruby enough outfits to clothe a small army.”
“I told you, Santa brought them.”
She narrowed her eyes, unconvinced. “Uh-huh.”
“She just has a way with persuasion.”
“Tell me about it,” she muttered.
When the kitchen was in order, Annie grabbed two wine glasses and filled them both generously. She handed me one, her lips quirking.
“Not a wine guy?” she teased. “You’ve got that rugged, broody, whiskey-drinker vibe.”
I took the glass without a word and downed nearly half in one swallow. Her eyes widened, and I held it out again until she poured more.
We took our glasses to the couch. I sat dead center, deliberately making her choose between keeping distance or closing it. She chose the latter, settling to my left, legs crossed and turned toward me, one arm draped over the back of the couch.
She took a sip, then stretched her leg until her foot brushed my thigh. It was casual… maybe. I felt the heat of it all the way up my spine. I didn’t move.
“So,” she said, tilting her head. “I’m dying to know more about this whole rodeo clown thing.”
“This is the third time you’ve brought it up since I moved in,” I said, sipping my wine.
“Because it’s insane!” She laughed. “Who actually does that for a living?”
“I haven’t been a clown my whole life,” I told her. “That was more of a… later-in-life career choice. Post-retirement.”
“Retirement? You’re thirty-two.”
“I was a professional bull rider for twelve years,” I explained. I lifted my elbow, showing her the pale scar that curved along the bone. “Took a bad fall. Shattered it. Couldn’t ride again. The clown work came after that.”
