Page 29 of Special Delivery Cowboy
The timer dinged. We broke apart, both smiling.
I rolled out dough and handed him cookie cutters. "Your job is shapes. Try to get them close together."
"Yes, ma'am."
While the first batch baked, TJ flicked flour at me. A white cloud hit my chest.
"Oh, you're going to pay for that."
I grabbed powdered sugar and threw it at him. It exploded across his shirt.
"Oh, it's on now."
The flour fight was brief—just enough to make us both laugh before he caught me around the waist and lifted me onto the counter.
"Surrender?"
"Never!"
His palms settled at my waist. Mine slid into his flour-dusted hair. The laughter faded.
"You have sugar on your nose."
"You have flour everywhere."
He kissed me—sweet and slow. When he pulled back, his eyes had gone dark.
"Cookies are going to burn."
"Right."
I rescued them just in time—golden brown and perfect.
When they'd cooled, I set out colored frosting and sprinkles. "Okay, decorate."
TJ picked up a star and slathered it with green frosting, then dumped sprinkles on top.
"That's... creative."
"It's a Christmas tree. Green with ornaments."
"It's a star."
"Artistic interpretation."
I showed him my carefully piped snowman. "This is how you do it."
"Show-off."
We decorated cookies, ate warm ones straight off the sheet, and talked. He told ranch stories—cattle mishaps, equipment disasters, the time a calf got stuck in the barn.
"That's when I realized being the boss means sometimes you're elbow-deep in mud at three in the morning," he said. "Dad just handed me a beer and said, 'Welcome to ranch management.'"
I laughed. "Sounds like he has a dry sense of humor."
"Comes with the territory." The muscle in TJ's jaw tightened. "But honestly? I'm terrified. Three generations worked that land. What if I screw it up?"
"Hey." I squeezed his hand. "You love that ranch. You know it inside and out. That's what makes you the right person."
