Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
isaac
The storm’s moved on.
Outside the tack room, the rain softens to a lazy drizzle, tapping against the tin roof like a lullaby. But in here, everything’s still. Quiet. Steady.
She’s curled into me, cheek against my chest, her breath warm where it hits my skin. My heart pounds a little harder than usual, but not from the sex—though, yeah, that was unreal.
It’s her.
The way she melts into me like she belongs here. Like this isn’t a temporary stop on her way back to whatever world she came from.
My fingers trace slow circles along her bare spine, not to start anything more—but because I don’t want to let go. Not yet.
“You okay?” I ask, voice rough from all the things I haven’t said.
She nods but doesn’t lift her head. “More than okay.”
Relief hits me low in the chest. I press a kiss to her hairline and murmur, “Good. Because I’d like to very respectfully say that was the hottest thing I’ve ever been a part of.”
She lets out this soft, breathless laugh that makes something tighten in my throat. “Respectfully?”
“I figured I should be a gentleman,” I say, grinning, “since I just put your legs over my shoulders in a room full of saddles.”
She groans and hides her face. “You are never allowed to bring that up again.”
“Deal.” I nuzzle against her temple, still smiling. “But only because I’m hoping for several repeat performances.”
She pulls back just enough to look up at me.
And hell—her hair’s a mess, lips swollen, dress still off, but she looks at me like I’ve given her a gift.
I slide her black lace panties off the ankle they’re dangling from and tuck them into my pocket. “I’m keeping these,” I tell her.
She makes a face like I’m being ridiculous but she’s smiling. Damn, that smile gets me every time. I’ve noticed she’s selfish with it—reserving it for rare occasions, not just tossing one to every person who glances her direction.
I don’t have the vocabulary to explain what it means to me that I seem to get more of her smiles than anyone else, but it makes me want to beat on my chest and yell mine to every motherfucker within hearing distance.
I reach for her dress—still damp and wrinkled from earlier—and ease it over her head, careful not to rush. My fingers trail down her arms as I help her back into her clothing, and it hits me all at once:
The risk we’re taking. The price we’ll both pay if we get caught.
The fact that I don’t know if I care anymore because there’s nothing I wouldn’t give up for this. For her.
The look in her eyes, the one that says she’s with me in this, the trust, I’m becoming addicted to it.
Elena’s stomach rumbles loudly as we’re cleaning up.
She lowers her eyes as if she’s embarrassed but I tilt her chin so she’ll look at me.
“When did you eat last, baby?”
She chews her lower lip. “Lunch, I think.”
That was nearly six hours ago.
“You hungry?” I ask.
Her eyes dart away from mine as she shrugs a non-committal shoulder.
I brush a piece of hair behind her ear. “Let’s get you fed. Then back to the cabin. Warm bath. Feet up. You’ve had a hell of a day.”
She sighs. “Not as tough as Eli has had. Maybe we should invite him to dinner.”
“He’ll survive.”
Her voice goes all teasing. “Jealous, cowboy?”
“Not really.” I look her in the eye. “Not when I’m the one who just had my cock buried deep inside you.”
She pinches my side. “Behave.”
I grin. “We can get the guy a doggie bag, I guess. But trust me—Laurel Logan doesn’t let anyone go hungry on this ranch. I bet she’s already making Willow hand-deliver him a plate whether she wants to or not.”
Elena laughs again. And I decide right then I’ll do just about anything to keep that sound in my life.
Even if it scares the hell out of me.
I don’t get nervous around women.
When you deal with livestock for a living, a female you could easily carry hardly seems intimidating.
Except this one.
After she changes into dry clothes—a painfully short denim skirt and loose-fitting cream-colored top that drapes off her shoulder enough to make my mouth water—we head out to grab some dinner.
She glances over at me from the passenger seat of my truck, one brow arched. “Everything okay?”
Other than the fact that we both just knowingly broke a legally binding agreement, and I have no clue how I’m going to make myself stop breaking it, everything is fantastic.
I grip the wheel tighter and keep my eyes on the road.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Just…thinking about dinner.”
“Is this like, a date?” she says, grinning out the side of her mouth. “Because if it is, I think we’re doing this whole thing backwards.”
I glance at her.
That grin on her lips is dangerous to my health.
“I don’t do dates at all typically, so hell if I know.”
We pull into the gravel lot of Los Compadres Taqueria, the only place within fifty miles that makes homemade tortillas. Bright lights strung across the entrance. Folding chairs on the lawn. The whole thing smells like lime and cilantro and Tequila.
I park, cut the engine, and hesitate.
She’s still watching me.
“You brought me to a taco joint?”
I feel heat creep up my neck. “Yeah. They’re famous. The goat barbacoa—”
“You think I eat goat?” she deadpans. “Because I’m from New Mexico?”
“What—no. Jesus, Elena. No! I didn’t—” I fumble for something better. Anything better. “I didn’t pick this place because—because of your background, I just thought—”
She stares at me.
I’m flailing. I know it. I can’t even talk, and that’s not something people accuse me of often.
This is why I don’t date. Because I am destined to fuck it up.
Before I can apologize for offending her without meaning to, she bursts out laughing.
Like really laughing—head back, eyes shining, shoulders shaking in the passenger seat while I sit there, jaw clenched, feeling like a dumbass with a cowboy hat.
“Oh my God, Isaac.” She wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “I’m fucking with you. I love tacos. Let’s eat.”
I blink.
“You’re evil,” I mutter.
She winks but I’m still flustered.
“Seriously. That was mean.”
“Aww,” she pouts playfully, popping her door open. “Keep up, cowboy.”
She hops down, that skirt lifting just enough to make my pulse trip, and struts toward the open-air patio.
I follow her inside, practically jogging to catch up so I can hold her door open.
I’m still rattled.
Still kind of sweating.
Maybe this is a date.
She orders two tacos al pastor, a tamarind Jarritos, and a side of tomatillo salsa without even glancing at the menu.
“I’m impressed,” I say, handing the cashier a twenty. “You don’t even need time to think.”
Elena shrugs, stepping toward the salsa bar like she owns it. “Confidence comes from knowing what you want.”
I follow her like a damn puppy. “Oh yeah? You always this decisive?”
“Only with food. And sex.”
I almost choke on my laugh.
“For the record, I’ve never eaten goat,” she offers.
I shrug. “I’m not that picky. I’ll eat about anything.”
She smirks but there’s a hard glint in her eyes. “That’s the word on the street.”
I wince then place a hand over my heart. “Ouch, spitfire. Was that you slut-shaming me?”
She arches her brow. “Only shaming you if you’re ashamed of it. No judgement here, cowboy.”
When our order is up, we take our plates to a picnic table tucked under a string of patio lights.
Between bites, she’s quiet. Chewing. Smiling to herself. Then she glances up at me, eyes dancing. “You’re staring.”
“Sorry.” I wipe my mouth with a napkin, then say, before I can stop myself, “Haven’t been here in a long time.”
“Los Compadres?”
I nod. “Used to come here with my dad. Just the two of us. Only thing we did without my siblings or my mom.”
Her expression softens, elbows resting on the table, chin in her hand. “Was he a comedian type like you?”
“Nah. He just had a big presence. Big laugh. Big opinions. Big everything. But when it was just me and him, he’d tone it down. Talk to me on my level. About football, horses, girls, whatever.”
I look out across the lot. The air smells like smoke and grilled meat, the way it always has.
“He’d teach me things he didn’t tell the others. Like how if a jalapeno’s too hot, squeeze lime on it. The acid cuts the heat.”
She leans in, smiling. “You don’t like the heat?”
“Not if it burns my tastebuds off,” I say, nudging the lime wedge from my plate to hers. “You know how much I love to use my tongue. Plus, it gives it a little zing. I like it.”
She shakes her head at my filthy innuendo but does add some lime to her tacos. “It’s good,” she admits.
I nod. “Right?”
She smiles, but it’s softer now. “Sounds like your dad was a good one.”
“He was.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “We lost him a little over a year ago.”
“I’m sorry. I saw that in the script, but I didn’t know how much of that was factual.”
I glance down at my food. “I’m good. I’ve made my peace with it.” Well, most of it. I don’t tell her about Asher’s most recent letter and what his connections have found during the investigation into my father’s murder. I haven’t even told my brothers yet.
She studies me for a second.
“I’m glad you brought me here,” she says.
“Me too.”
She glances at a laminated placemat on our table. “Ooh, they have sopapilla.” She licks a bit of sauce off her thumb, then smirks. “What are your feelings on dessert?”
I pretend to think it over, grateful she’s lightening the mood. “I’m definitely pro-dessert.”
Her smile widens. “You know, cowboy, I’m almost starting to like you a little.”