Page 16 of Special Delivery Cowboy
Her hazel eyes shifted between green and gold depending on how the flames hit them. When she laughed—which she did easily, often at herself—dimples appeared in both cheeks.
I'd noticed all of this in the past two hours. Catalogued every detail like a fool.
She was a city girl, used to conveniences and restaurants and a life that didn't smell like manure. She'd quit her job yesterdayand had no idea what came next. She was heartbroken, vulnerable, spending Christmas alone because some asshole didn't know what he had.
And I was a rancher who'd be back to his isolated life the second the weather let up.
This was temporary. When the storm passed, I'd go back to my life and she'd go back to hers.
I needed to remember that.
"We should probably eat something," Tinsley said, breaking the comfortable silence. "Before we both pass out from hunger."
My stomach growled right on cue, loud enough that Twinkle's ears twitched in her sleep.
"Seconded." I carefully moved the puppy to her blanket by the fire. She didn't even stir.
In the kitchen, Tinsley moved with confidence, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator. "I've got everything for beef stew. It's my mom's recipe—a family favorite. I don’t even remember the last time I made it."
"Why not?"
"Satan—aka Grayson, my lying, cheating ex—said it was too heavy. Too many carbs neither of us needed." She set a large russet potato on the counter harder than necessary.
The urge to drive to Bozeman and introduce this Grayson to my fist was stronger than it should be.
"His loss," I said simply.
She glanced at me, something tender in her expression. "You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
"Well." She smiled, that dimple appearing again. "Want to help?"
"Fair warning—I'm not much of a cook. At home, meals tend toward functional, not fancy."
"Perfect. You can chop vegetables. I'll handle the rest."
She handed me a cutting board and knife. I took off my flannel shirt, leaving just my thermal undershirt, and rolled up my sleeves. When I looked up, Tinsley was staring at my forearms.
"Vegetables?" I said, keeping my voice neutral.
Her cheeks went pink. "Right. Yes. Carrots first."
We fell into an easy rhythm. She directed, I followed orders. The kitchen filled with good smells—onions sautéing in butter, meat browning, the rich scent of beef broth. She hummed along to the Christmas music playing from her laptop, occasionally singing a line or two.
"You really know what you’re doing," I observed, watching her work.
"I love cooking. Always have." She added wine to the pot—a generous pour. "My mom taught me when I was little. We'd spend Saturdays baking bread or making soup. It was our thing." She paused, staring into the pot. "I gave it up though, since Grayson wouldn’t eat what I liked to make—and he thought I shouldn’t, either.”
"What the hell was wrong with him?" The words came out harsher than intended.
She looked at me, surprise and something else in her eyes. "Well, I'm not exactly magazine material."
"You're stunning."
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "TJ—"
"Just stating facts, ma'am." I focused on chopping potatoes. "Any man who makes a woman feel bad about herself isn't worth the dirt on her boots."
