Page 12 of Her Jolly Cowboy
“The person who lets go. Who doesn’t have a plan. Who gets snowed in and sleeps with a guy she barely knows and then—” My voice cracks. “—and then has to leave.”
His jaw flexes. “Who says you have to leave?”
“I have a life—”
“In a city three hours away that you hate half the time,” he cuts in. “I’ve heard you on the phone with your assistant. You’re burned out, Holly. You’re running on caffeine and panic and pretending it’s control.”
I flinch.
He softens. “I’m not asking you to stay forever. I’m asking you to stop pretending the last two days didn’t mean something, because they sure as hell meant something to me.”
I stare at him, chest tight.
He reaches out, brushes a knuckle down my cheek. “I’m not giving up, Boss Lady. Not unless you look me in the eye and tell me you want me to.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
He nods once, like he expected it, and steps back. “Take your time,” he says quietly. “But I’m not going anywhere.”
Then he walks out, leaving me alone with the scent of leather and pine and the echo of his mouth on mine under the mistletoe. I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor, knees to chest.
I am so screwed.
Chapter six
Luke
I give her space the way a man gives a wildfire room to breathe—carefully, respectfully, and with one eye on the flames.
For two days I keep my hands to myself in public. I flirt in small doses. A wink across the breakfast table, a brush of fingers when I hand her coffee, a low “mornin’, Boss Lady” that makes her cheeks go pink every damn time. I haul boxes, hang lights, and shovel snow until my shoulders ache, anything to keep from dragging her into the nearest dark corner and reminding her exactly how good we are together.
She’s a whirlwind with her clipboard in one hand, phone in the other, barking orders like a five-star general. But I see the cracks. I see the way she rubs her temples when she thinks no one’s looking, the way she stares at the ruined cake photo on her phone like it personally betrayed her.
The cake.
Yesterday the backup generator in the walk-in freezer hiccupped during a power surge. Twelve hours later, Frankie’s dream wedding cake with three tiers of vanilla bean cake, achampagne soak, and edible gold leaf was a mess of buttercream and crumbs.
Holly stood in the kitchen at 2 a.m., staring at the mess like it was a corpse. I found her there, still in her boots, hair escaping its knot, eyes glassy.
“We can fix it,” I said.
She laughed, bitter and broken. “With what? Magic?”
“With Grandma’s recipe and every egg on this ranch.”
She looked at me then, really looked, and something shifted.
Now it’s day four of wedding week, and the kitchen smells like cake. Grandma’s at the stove, Holly’s elbow-deep in flour, and I’m on egg-cracking duty because apparently I have “strong hands.”
Holly’s in one of my flannels again over her tank top. Her clothes were wedding appropriate, not ranch appropriate. She has the sleeves rolled, the hem brushes her thighs, and every time she reaches for a measuring cup I get a flash of skin that short-circuits my brain.
We’ve been at it since dawn. Three practice cakes are cooling on racks. The fourth, the real one, is in the oven, timer ticking down like a bomb.
Holly wipes her forehead with the back of her wrist, leaving a streak of flour. “If this doesn’t work, I’m driving to Bozeman in a blizzard and kidnapping the original baker.”
I crack another egg one-handed, let the yolk slide into the bowl. “You’d make a hell of a hostage negotiator.”
She snorts. “I once talked a groom out of releasing doves indoors. I’ve got skills.”
