CHAPTER 27 #2
When I reached the kitchen doorway, I paused and simply took in the sight.
Jaxon stood at the stove, still wearing only his boxer briefs, his back to me as he flipped what looked like pancakes.
Chester sat obediently at his feet, tail wagging, clearly angling for scraps.
Morning sunlight streamed through the windows, bathing everything in gold.
The whole scene felt so domestic, so normal, so right, that my chest ached.
"Are you going to stand there staring, or are you going to come sit down?" Jaxon asked without turning around, amusement threading through his voice.
Busted.
"I wasn't staring," I protested, stepping into the kitchen. "I was... observing."
"Uh-huh." He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes crinkling with humor. Then his gaze dropped, taking in the sight of me in his shirt and nothing else, and the humor melted into something hotter, darker. "Christ, Anna. You're trying to kill me."
Heat flooded my cheeks, but I couldn't stop my smile as I slid into one of the kitchen chairs. "You're the one who left me in bed to make breakfast."
"Self-preservation," he muttered, turning back to the stove. "If I'd stayed in that bed with you looking at me like that, we wouldn't have eaten until dinner."
Oh.
The implication in his words that there would be more, that last night wasn't just a one-time thing, made warmth bloom deep in my chest.
I watched him plate the pancakes with surprising skill, adding butter and syrup before bringing both plates to the table. He'd already poured two cups of coffee, and mine was made exactly the way I liked it, without him even having to ask.
He noticed. He pays attention.
"This looks amazing," I said as he sat down across from me, finally close enough to touch again.
"My mom's recipe," he said softly, something tender flickering in his eyes. "She used to make them every Sunday morning."
The admission felt intimate, a small piece of his past offered freely. I reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "Thank you for sharing that with me."
His fingers laced through mine, warm and sure. "Thank you for last night," he murmured, meeting my gaze with an intensity that stole my breath. "For choosing me. For trusting me."
"Always," I whispered, meaning it with every fiber of my being.
We ate in comfortable silence for a while, the kind that felt full rather than empty. Every so often, our eyes would meet across the table, and the heat that sparked between us had nothing to do with the coffee and everything to do with the memory of tangled limbs and whispered promises.
"So," Jaxon said eventually, a teasing note in his voice, "how sore are you?"
"Jaxon!" I gasped, scandalized even as laughter bubbled up. My face flamed.
"What? It's a legitimate question." His grin turned wicked. "I just need to know if I should take it easy on you later, or—"
I threw a piece of pancake at him, which he caught effortlessly, laughing. The sound was rich and unguarded, and it made my heart feel too big for my chest. This playfulness, this ease, this joy. This is what I'd been missing.
"You're impossible," I said, trying for stern but failing miserably.
"You like it," he countered, standing and rounding the table. He pulled me up from my chair and into his arms in one smooth motion, his hands settling on my hips. "Admit it."
"Maybe," I said, looping my arms around his neck. "A little."
He leaned down, his lips hovering just above mine. "Just a little?"
"Okay, a lot," I breathed against his mouth. "I like you a lot."
"Good," he murmured, closing the distance in a kiss that was slow and deep and tasted of maple syrup, coffee, and him. "Because I like you a lot too."
When we finally broke apart, breathless, his forehead rested against mine.
"We should probably talk about this," he said quietly. "About us. About what this means."
What it means. What we are. What we'll tell Connor.
"We should," I agreed, tracing lazy patterns along the back of his neck. "But maybe... not right this second?"
His grin turned molten. "What did you have in mind?"
Instead of answering, I took his hand and led him back toward the stairs. Behind us, our half-eaten breakfast sat cooling on the table, forgotten.
But neither of us cared.
We had better things to do.
Daniel
Daniel walked along the outside of the show ring, his baseball cap pulled low to shield his eyes from the relentless sun beating down with oppressive intensity.
The heat was sweltering, making his thin cotton shirt cling uncomfortably to his back.
Sweat dampened the fabric, which chafed against his skin with every step, an irritation that would normally set his teeth on edge, but he barely noticed it.
His mind was locked on one all-consuming goal: finding Anna.
He tugged the cap lower, the brim casting his face in shadow and obscuring his features from prying eyes.
Paranoia prickled along his spine like ants marching beneath his skin.
He was confident that the infuriating cowboy didn't know what he looked like, they'd never met face-to-face, after all, but Daniel wasn't willing to take any chances.
Not when he was this close to his quarry.
She's here. She has to be here.
The crowd's restless energy, fueled by the oppressive heat that shimmered in visible waves above the packed dirt, provided the perfect cover.
Most people were too busy fanning themselves with folded programs, sipping from sweating water bottles, or focusing on the horses in the ring to notice him slipping through the throngs of spectators like a wraith.
He was invisible. Anonymous. Just another face in the crowd.
The show ring buzzed with frenetic activity, a dizzying swirl of glinting tack, gleaming coats in every shade of brown and black, and flashing hooves that kicked up clouds of dust with each precisely timed movement.
The sensory overload made Daniel's head ache, a dull throb building behind his eyes.
The rhythmic clopping of hooves against packed dirt, punctuated by intermittent cheers and applause, pounded in his ears. The tinny voice of the announcer droned endlessly over the loudspeaker, each word grating against his nerves.
It was only the first event of the morning.
He'd checked the posted schedule, he knew they'd be here all day, but the crackling energy of competition hung heavy in the air like static.
Riders and horses whirled through complex routines in a kinetic dance that made him feel clumsy and out of place, an intruder in a world that wasn't his.
These people were all standing in his way.
Daniel's sharp gaze flicked restlessly over the sea of cowboy hats and baseball caps, scanning for a glimpse of Anna's distinctive honey-blonde hair, that particular shade that caught the light like spun gold, the hair he'd run his fingers through countless times, the hair he'd dreamed about every night since she'd left him.
He searched for the familiar, determined set of her slim shoulders, the quiet confidence that had first drawn him in. The petite frame that fit perfectly against his own.
But there was no sign of her among the milling crowd, and frustration began to bubble in his gut like acid, hot and corrosive. Where was she hiding?
Finding her in this chaos would be difficult, he could admit that much, at least to himself. The showgrounds sprawled across acres, with multiple rings, endless rows of barns, and hundreds of people flowing constantly between them. Tracking a single person here was nearly impossible.
But she had to be here.
The logic was unassailable. Where else could she possibly hide for so long without leaving an electronic trace?
She hadn't used her credit cards, he'd been monitoring them obsessively, refreshing the account page dozens of times a day.
She hadn't accessed her bank account, posted on social media, or sent emails from her old addresses.
She'd gone completely dark, as if she'd vanished from the face of the earth.
The only explanation was that damn cowboy.
Connor Whitaker. Daniel had dug through public records and social media until he'd found the connection, a friend of Sam's, the one who'd introduced him to Anna.
Conveniently located in the middle of nowhere, Wyoming.
A horse ranch, a perfect hideaway. Too fucking convenient.
Connor must have been hell-bent on keeping Anna from him, poisoning her mind against the relationship they'd built. Making her think Daniel was the problem, when all he'd ever done was love her. Protect her. Keep her safe from her own poor decisions.
The thought made Daniel's blood boil. His fingers tightened on the brim of his cap until his knuckles turned white and the cheap fabric threatened to tear. The rough weave bit into his palms, but the small pain grounded him, helping to focus the chaos swirling in his mind.
I have to find her. I have to make her see. I have to bring her home where she belongs.
As he continued his slow circuit of the ring, hugging the meager shadows cast by the towering grandstand to stay unnoticed, his gaze caught on a familiar figure.
There.
Connor stood on the opposite side of the ring, leaning casually against the weathered wooden fence.
One booted leg rested on the bottom rail, muscled arms folded across the top in an easy pose of confidence.
His hat was pushed back slightly, and even from this distance, Daniel could see the relaxed smile curving his mouth as he watched the ring.
The tall man's comfortable posture screamed that he belonged here, that this was his world, his territory. The smug bastard.