Page 5 of Her Jolly Cowboy
“Probably.”
She exhales, a slight, frustrated sound. “I don’t have time for terrible ideas.”
“Then I’ll wait till you do.”
For a second, I think she might kiss me anyway. Instead, she steps back, squares her shoulders, and marches toward the door like a general retreating to fight another day.
She sighs, long and dramatic. “Lead the way to your cabin before I change my mind and sleep in the barn with the heaters.”
I grab her suitcase that I got from her car earlier and shoulder it like it weighs nothing.
Outside, the storm’s turned vicious. Snow’s horizontal, wind howling like a freight train. I sling an arm around Holly’s shoulders to keep her upright, and she lets me.
My cabin’s a dark shape ahead, one lone porch light cutting through the whiteout. I get the door open, stomp snow off my boots, and usher her inside.
The second the door shuts behind us, the world goes quiet except for the fire I banked this morning crackling in the hearth.
Holly stands in the middle of my living room, dripping, cheeks red from the cold, eyes wide as she takes it in. My cabin isn’t much. I spend most of my time in the big house, but I do love it.
I drop her suitcase, shrug out of my coat, and try not to think about the fact that there’s one bed down the hall and there’s no way I’m going back out in that storm.
“Welcome home,” I say, voice rougher than I mean it to be.
She looks at me, something unreadable flickering across her face.
“This is going to be a disaster,” she mutters.
I grin. “Yeah. But it’s gonna be my favorite kind.”
Chapter three
Holly
I’m standing in the middle of Luke Carson’s living room, dripping melted snow onto his hardwood floor, clutching my work bag like it’s the last life raft on the Titanic. The cabin is small and warm, and smells of pine, coffee, and something unmistakably him. One couch. One fireplace. One bedroom visible through an open door that might as well have a neon sign flashing TROUBLE.
Luke kicks the door shut behind us, drops my suitcase by the couch, and starts peeling off layers like it’s no big deal that we’re now officially trapped together for the foreseeable future.
Coat. Gone. Flannel. Unbuttoned and shrugged off, revealing a thermal Henley that clings to every ridiculous muscle. Hat. Tossed onto a hook with accuracy that should be illegal.
I’m still standing there like a soggy statue.
“You gonna stand there freezing,” he asks, voice low and amused, “or you gonna let me get you warm?”
I open my mouth. Close it. My brain is a dial-up modem in 1998.
He disappears into the kitchen area and starts clattering around. I finally move, toeing off my ruined boots and hanging my coat on the rack by the door. The fire is roaring now. He must’ve added logs the second we walked in.
I drag my suitcase toward the hallway. “I’ll just—”
“Bedroom and shower are that way,” he calls, “You’re taking the bed.”
“Absolutely not.”
He leans around the corner, spatula in hand like a weapon. “You’re not sleeping on that couch. It’s older than I am.”
“I’ve slept on worse.”
“Not in my house.” He disappears again. “End of discussion, Boss Lady.”
