Chapter 11
Eleven
MY MOM WARNED ME ABOUT MEN LIKE HIM.
KINSLEY
I’ve been lying to myself all day, telling myself I can handle Wyatt Halloway.
I smooth my hands over the simple sage green dress I changed into—then out of and then back into. “It’s just dinner,” I insist. “Nothing but returning a favor.”
I catch my reflection in the entry way mirror—my cheeks are flushed and I’m wearing date-night makeup.
Even I don't believe myself anymore.
I open the door at his knock and—holy wow.
Wyatt Halloway stands on my porch looking like trouble wrapped in denim and starlight.
My fingers actually itch to touch him.
I shove my hands deep into my dress pockets as fire races through my blood.
His brown hair curls at the edges where it meets the collar of a navy button-down that should be illegal in all fifty states.
The color makes his storm-gray eyes look absolutely wicked, and when he shifts his weight, the fabric pulls across his chest, and my mouth goes dry.
He's rolled the sleeves up to his forearms—because apparently, he wants to kill me.
There's a small scar on his left knuckle that I want to trace with my fingertip.
That thought alone should send me running from him; instead, I'm standing here like an idiot, probably staring, definitely forgetting how to breathe like a normal human being.
But it's what he's holding that stops my heart entirely.
A caramel apple.
"You brought me a caramel apple?" The words are soft and wondering and entirely too revealing about how much this simple gesture means to me.
His mouth curves into a devastating half-smile. "Hard to forget a beautiful woman enjoying a caramel apple."
I’m immediately back in Cheyenne, enjoying a treat from my childhood and eavesdropping on him and Jake. I had no idea he was paying that much attention to me then.
But he noticed.
I mean, I certainly felt an attraction to him, but I had no idea it went both ways. "You're good, roughie." If this is an act, it’s the best I’ve ever seen.
His cocky grin returns. "What you're saying is that it's working."
I chuckle at him and step back from the doorway. "I suppose you should come in before the neighbors start talking."
“Don’t worry. The cows aren’t much for gossip.
” He cocks his head to the side and his forehead wrinkles in an endearing way that he just can't help as he steps inside.
His gaze lands on the table set for two and a vase of fresh flowers from the garden outside. "I thought I was taking you to dinner."
I shake my head, still feeling the slight tinge of headache that extra strength Advil couldn't chase away. "I cooked." He hesitates and I am so satisfied that I've taken him by surprise.
"Kinsley Rose," he says my full name like I'm in trouble. If I'm not in trouble, then I want to be—just to hear him say it like that again. "You should let a man spoil you now and again."
I laugh. "I'm not even sure how to do that."
He stops beside me, his hand brushing my side as he says low and with a voice full of honey, "I can teach you.
" My brain forgets what it's for and my body feels like it's floating.
Before I can gather my wits about me—which is a phrase I never understood until his thumb brushes my rib before disappearing—he moves past me into the cottage.
"Make yourself at home," I say, closing the door behind us.
He turns to face me in the small entryway, and suddenly the cottage feels impossibly intimate.
The golden light from the kitchen lamp casts shadows that emphasize the strong line of his jaw and the breadth of his shoulders.
When he smiles, something predatory flickers in his brooding eyes. "This is my home."
Of course. This cottage, this ranch, this entire valley—it's all Halloway land.
I'm renting space in his inheritance.
"What if bull riding takes you on a different path and you don’t end up here?"
Something shifts in his expression—surprise, maybe, that I'd challenge the assumption everyone else seems to make about his future. “Then this place is yours.”
“And if you decide to stay?” I ask.
"Then I guess you'd have to find a new place—or we could be roommates."
I can feel his dare dancing through the gate like a barrel horse—dangerous and powerful.
I set the caramel apple on the kitchen counter with hands that are steadier than they have any right to be, hyperaware of his gaze following my every movement.
"Lucky for me, I don't plan on being here that long. "
"Lucky," he repeats, but there's something in his tone that suggests he finds nothing lucky about it at all.
When I turn to face him, he's closer than he was a moment ago—not crowding, exactly, but near enough that I catch the faint scent of his cologne. Near enough that if I took one step forward, I could find out if he tastes as good as he looks.
The thought sends panic racing through my veins, followed immediately by a rush of want so strong it makes my knees unsteady. This is exactly what I was afraid of—this pull, this heat, this dangerous desire to let someone in, making me lose control.
My mom warned me about men like him.
"So," I say, turning toward the refrigerator. "I've got some good news and some bad news."
When I glance back, his smile is pure trouble. "Let's hear it."
Dang that smile.
"The bad news is I don't really cook." I shrug as I bite my lip.
Since I spent most of the afternoon nursing a headache and icing to keep the swelling down, I wouldn't have had enough time to figure it out.
"But Brook left me a lasagna, and I can reheat with the best of them.
" I pull it out and set it on the counter.
It's already been cooked and the instructions for reheating are written on the foil. I turn on the oven.
"Fine by me." Wyatt strides over to the fridge seemingly unaffected by my confession that I’m not a domestic goddess. He opens the door and rummages through the contents. "Do you want a salad?" he asks as he tosses lettuce and other veggies onto the counter.
I stare at him. No bull rider in the history of ever wants to eat a salad. Is he … I mean … Is he offering to chop a cucumber for me? “Yeah,” I reply.
He washes his hands and gets to work.
I consider him. He’s… well he’s not what I expected him to be.
"I'm sure we can figure out dessert…together." He looks me over like he’s ready to sample the menu. "Nice dress by the way."
Or he’s exactly what I thought he was—a cowboy Casanova.
I bristle. “There’s no together-ing tonight. This is just payback. Besides, you’re pretty-well taken.”
“Taken? Sweetheart,” he reaches for the carrots, “there is no other woman.”
I pull up the post on my phone and flip it around.
“Doesn’t look that way.” My heart slams against my chest. For some stupid reason, tears prick the back of my eyes.
I can’t believe I’m getting emotional. I’m a master at keeping my cool during honest and raw conversations but hearing from him that he’s with this girl is going to sting.
He scowls. “Trust me—that is not what it looks like.”
“Oh? ‘Cuz it looks like you’re a couple.” I glance back at my phone and blink quickly—stopping the tears. I need to make this very clear. I’m not, nor will I ever be, the other woman. And I won’t step blindly into even flirting with him if he has a girlfriend.
He hooks his finger under my chin and brings my eyes up to meet his. “Fans do crazy things all the time. They hide in my truck. They steal my hat. They slip their phone numbers into my gear bag, and they ask me to sign body parts I’d rather not name.”
I cringe at the mental image he paints.
“But I’m standing in your kitchen making you a salad when you don’t even have ranch dressing in the fridge.”
I let out the breath I’ve been holding. His sister is his biggest fan—which doesn’t happen unless you’re the kind of brother who is good to her growing up.
Horses trust him—which is a big deal in my book.
Maybe I’m a fool, but I grab the plates and forks and set the table, telling myself it’s just dinner. “So does your colt have a name?”
Wyatt goes back to chopping. “Bucky.”
I laugh. “It is not.”
He grins. “It fits, right?”
I shake my head thinking of how the horse bucked and reared in the barn.
The timer goes off. “I’ll get it.” I grab the oven mitts out of the drawer. I’m not sure I trust Wyatt, but if this is a mistake, I’m knee-deep into it.