Unwrapped by the Cowboy (A Cowboy for Christmas #7)

CHAPTER ONE

Riley

I didn’t mean to commit arson before breakfast, but here we were.

The kitchen of Hartland Ranch in Lone Mountain, Montana, looked like a war zone. Smoke billowed from the oven, the smell of burned biscuits hung thick in the air, and the coffee pot was making a sound that suggested it was either possessed or about to explode.

This was supposed to be simple—step in for Aunt Mae while her sprained wrist healed. Cook for the owner and a few ranch hands until after the holidays were over.

There was just one problem.

I couldn’t cook.

But Mae was my aunt, I loved her, and I needed to help her as she’d always helped me.

My one thought was, heaven help the cowboys.

I put the pan of biscuits on top of the stove, and braced both hands on the counter, refusing to cry. I could do this. I needed to do this. I could not, I firmly told myself, walk out the kitchen door, get in my car, and leave. Which, frankly, was my signature life skill.

I looked out the window watching the snow fall. Someone had strung Christmas lights along the wraparound porch, and the pop of color against the pre-dawn sky was beautiful. December in the Montana foothills was supposed to be magical. The kind of place where Hallmark movies happened.

Nobody mentioned the part where you set fire to breakfast and contemplated faking your own death.

“What in the fresh hell are you doing to my kitchen?”

I spun around and found myself face-to-chest with what had to be six-foot-something of pissed-off cowboy.

Holy Christmas cookies.

My eyes traveled up—way up—past a red flannel shirt stretched across shoulders that could probably bench-press a horse, past a jaw that looked like it had been carved by an angry mountain god, until I finally met a pair of dark brown eyes that seemed to be drilling holes straight to my soul.

Heat slammed into me so hard I actually stumbled back a step. This man—this ridiculously gorgeous, broad-shouldered, scowling mountain of a man—made every part of me that was feminine sit up and pay attention. Meaning my nipples tightened and my panties got damp very, very quickly.

Down, girl. This is your boss. Your temporary boss.

But my body wasn’t listening to reason. My nipples had gone tight and hard, pressing against my bra in a way that made me grateful for the thick apron.

Heat pooled low in my belly, spreading between my thighs until I could feel myself getting wet.

Actually wet, from just looking at him. I shifted my weight, trying to ease the sudden ache, and felt the dampness in my panties. This was bad. This was so, so bad.

“I’m cooking,” I managed, infusing my voice with confidence I was far from feeling. “Obviously.”

“Obviously.” His gaze slid to the smoke detector I’d disabled with a broom handle, the blackened biscuits now resembling hockey pucks, and the flour that somehow covered every surface, including myself.

One dark eyebrow rose slowly. “Are you planning on burning down the whole ranch, or just my kitchen?”

God, even his voice did things to me. It was deep and rough, with just enough edge to make my thighs clench.

I was in so much trouble.

“I’m filling in for my aunt,” I said, trying to ignore the way my body was reacting to his proximity.

“Really? She told me she had a competent replacement.” He crossed his arms, which did absolutely obscene things to those shoulders. “I didn’t realize she was sending an arsonist.”

“I didn’t realize the ranch owner was an asshole, but here we are. Merry Christmas to you too.”

The words were out before I could stop them. Great. My first day here, and I was already mouthing off to my boss. But the man had gotten under my skin and not just because he was sex on a stick.

Though that definitely wasn’t helping.

His other eyebrow joined the first. Just that—two eyebrows rising in what might have been surprise or amusement—and somehow that single gesture made my stomach do a very unauthorized flip.

“Sweetheart,” he drawled, and the word dripped with enough condescension to fill a bucket, “those cowboys out there expect three square meals a day. They start work at four-thirty in the morning, and they need real food to get through twelve-hour days in the cold. So, if you’re planning on serving them charcoal surprise for the next four weeks, we’ve got a problem. ”

Four weeks. Through Christmas and into the New Year. That’s how long Aunt Mae needed to recover, and how long I’d promised to stay.

It had seemed doable when I’d agreed. Now, facing down this mountain of masculine disapproval—this stupidly attractive mountain of masculine disapproval—it felt like a prison sentence.

A very confusing prison sentence that involved way too many inappropriate thoughts about my warden.

I opened my mouth to tell him exactly where he could shove his three squares a day when the smoke detector decided to start working again, shrieking through the kitchen like a banshee with a grudge.

He moved before I could react, reaching up to silence it with one hand. His arm brushed mine, and I inhaled without thinking.

Big mistake.

He smelled like Christmas wrapped in flannel, and my brain went unfortunately blank.

“You got a name, or should I just call you Disaster?” he asked, not moving away. He was close enough that I could see the silver threading through the hair at his temples and the small scar cutting through his left eyebrow.

Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body, making me want to lean in and—

Nope. Not going there.

“Riley.” I lifted my chin, refusing to step back even though my heart was doing something complicated against my ribs. Even though my panties were getting embarrassingly damp. “Riley Jenson. And you are?”

“Dalton Hart.” He finally stepped back, giving me room to breathe. “Ranch owner. We need to talk about your cooking situation.”

He crossed those big arms again, and I wondered briefly what it would feel like to be in them. I mentally slapped myself with some cold water. “There’s no situation. I’ve got this under control.”

His eyes dropped to the still smoking pan. Back to me. And then that eyebrow again.

Damn him and his expressive eyebrows.

“Okay, fine.” I yanked off the ridiculous reindeer oven mitt I’d used and tossed it on the counter. “I may have... slightly exaggerated my culinary skills to Aunt Mae.”

“Slightly.”

“I can make toast. Sometimes. And I’m excellent at ordering takeout.”

“Fuck.” He dragged a hand through his hair, and I tried very hard not to notice how the movement made his bicep flex.

“I get it,” I interrupted, turning my back to him so he wouldn’t see the start of fresh tears.

It wouldn’t be the first time I’d been fired from a job.

But this time, it seemed so personal. Probably because I was helping my aunt.

Certainly not because of the disappointment I was imagining in those dark eyes.

“There’s no need to fire me. I’ll tell Aunt Mae she needs to find someone else. ”

His hand covered mine, stopping me.

I froze.

His palm was rough, calloused, and so warm it sent heat racing up my arm and straight to places that had no business getting involved in a conversation about getting fired.

I closed my eyes. Obviously, I needed to get laid. It had been too long if a simple hand-touch was making me want to climb this man like a tree.

“I didn’t say I was firing you.” His voice had dropped lower, if that were possible. “I said we need to talk about it.”

I turned back around, looking up at him and trying to ignore the way my pulse kicked into overdrive. I tried to ignore the fact that I could see flecks of gold in those dark eyes, that his mouth was curved in the barest hint of a smile, that he was looking at me like—

Well, let’s just say a man had never looked at me the way he was looking at me.

“What’s there to talk about? I can’t cook. You need someone who can.”

“Can you follow instructions?”

“Excuse me?”

A slow smile curved his mouth—the first real expression I’d seen from him besides irritation—and it was absolutely devastating. The kind of smile that probably left a trail of broken hearts across three counties.

The kind of smile that made me want to say yes to anything he asked.

“Instructions,” he repeated. His hand rose and brushed across my cheek, no doubt erasing a streak of flour. “Can you follow them? Or are you going to sass me at every turn?”

Oh, he was trouble. Capital T, underlined, with exclamation points.

And I wanted him anyway.

“That depends entirely on whether your instructions are reasonable or if you’re just being a bossy bastard for the fun of it.”

The smile widened. “How about I show you how it’s done?”

And thus began my first cooking lesson from a cowboy.

It only took a half-hour for me to learn several important things about Dalton Hart.

First, the man could honest-to-God cook. Not just competently but actually cook. He moved around the kitchen with the kind of easy confidence I was sure he had on a horse.

Second, he was bossier than any human had a right to be, barking instructions like a drill sergeant.

And third? Watching him work was stirring up feelings I had no business having.

“No, not like that. Fuck’s sake, woman, have you never cracked an egg before?”

I glared at him over the mixing bowl, fishing another piece of shell out with my finger. “I’ve cracked eggs. They usually cooperate.”

He moved behind me, his chest pressing against my back as he guided my hands.

Every. Single. Nerve. Ending. Lit. Up.

His body was a wall of heat, solid muscle, and something that made my brain go fuzzy.

I bit my lip hard, trying to stifle the moan building in my throat.

My nipples were so hard they actually hurt, tight peaks straining against my bra, and I prayed he couldn’t feel them pressing against his arm.

Between my legs, I was getting embarrassingly wet—not just damp anymore, but actually wet, throbbing with need.

Every breath pushed my ass back against him slightly, and I could feel the hard ridge of his cock pressed against me through his jeans. Oh god. He was hard. For me. The realization sent another rush of heat between my thighs, and I had to clench them together to try and ease the ache.

“Gentle tap on the edge. Crack. Then spread with your thumbs. Like this.”

His hands covered mine, large and warm and far too distracting. He guided my movements, cracking an egg with practiced ease, and I was fairly certain cracking eggs wasn’t supposed to feel this intimate.

Or this hot.

I wanted to ask him what else he could spread with his thumbs because I had a few suggestions. I had to shift my weight to try and ease the ache between my legs. This was insane. I’d known this man for less than an hour, and I was already thinking about what he’d look like naked.

What he’d feel like.

What he’d taste like.

“Like this?” I couldn’t help the breathless quality of my voice.

“Exactly like that.” His breath was warm against my ear, and I felt rather than heard his words rumble through his chest into my back. “See? You can follow instructions when you want to.”

“I’m great at following instructions,” I managed. “When they’re not being barked at me by a grumpy cowboy channeling some deranged version of Julia Child.”

His laugh sent another shiver up my spine. “Julia Child, huh?”

“You literally just made me remake the same biscuit dough four times.”

“Because you kept fucking it up.” But there was no heat in his words now, just something that sounded almost like amusement. He reached around me for another egg, effectively caging me against the counter, his arms bracketing my body. “Fifth time’s the charm.”

I should’ve moved. Put some distance between us. Reminded myself that I was here temporarily, that getting involved with anyone—especially the intensely attractive ranch owner who smelled like heaven and looked like sin—was a spectacularly bad idea.

Instead, I found myself leaning back into him slightly, feeling the solid strength of him, the way his body heat seeped into my bones.

“You always this bossy in the kitchen?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the eggs.

“Sweetheart, I’m bossy everywhere.” His mouth was close enough to my ear that I felt the words as much as heard them. “I’ve got to make sure things are done right. Properly. Thoroughly.”

I stopped moving.

We were definitely not just talking about eggs anymore.

“And if I don’t want to follow your instructions?” I challenged, my voice barely above a whisper.

He was quiet for a long moment, and I could feel the tension coiling between us, thick enough to cut with a knife.

“Then I guess I’ll have to find ways to make you want to,” he said softly.

My breath caught.

I turned my head slightly and found his face inches from mine. Those dark eyes had darkened further, and the air between us crackled with enough electricity to power all the Christmas lights in Montana.

His gaze dropped to my mouth. Lingered there.

I licked my lips without thinking, and the low sound he made had goosebumps popping out all over my body despite the heat from the stove.

“These eggs are going to burn,” I whispered, even as I leaned into his touch.

“Let them.”

His mouth was lowering toward mine, and I was already tilting my face up to meet him when—

The oven timer shrieked through the kitchen, shattering the moment like glass.

We both jumped apart, and Dalton swore under his breath.

I turned off the burner with shaking hands, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“The biscuits,” I managed.

He moved to the oven, pulling out the tray with practiced ease. The biscuits were golden brown, perfectly done. “Not bad for your fifth attempt.”

Before I could respond, the kitchen door swung open, and a wave of cold air and cowboys flooded in, and the spell was broken.

But as I served breakfast, feeling Dalton’s gaze on me the entire time, I knew one thing with absolute certainty. Four weeks suddenly felt like both an eternity and nowhere long enough.