Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
ELIZA
The white sheer curtains rustle in the breeze. I shouldn’t, but I do. Pulling them back an inch, just a sliver wide enough to watch.
Down below, I see him—buck naked and waist-deep in water. His back is to me, skin glistening in the low slant of the setting sun, the sky streaked pink and blue, purple and gold.
Breathtaking. I’m not talking about the sky.
My eyes trace the places where puckered scars break the angles and planes. And the tattoos. All black ink. Abstract.
Almost tribal, but not. Something else.
Like the symbol in the alfalfa field.
He stretches, muscles rippling along the length of his back, stepping back out of the water just enough so I see the angular lines cutting diagonally across his hips, catch a faint tease of black hair that disappears beneath the water.
Suddenly, his eyes are locked on me. I gasp, letting the curtain fall.
A flash of turquoise, a look more curious than alarmed. Like he knows I’m watching. Like maybe it amuses him.
“God,” I scold myself under my breath. “Way to lose a ranch hand. But my mind fixates again… on wet flesh that pulses, heated beneath the evening sun.
When the screen door screeches and the floorboards creak, I dart for the hallway, closing the door to the guest bedroom silently.
I disappear into my bedroom, locking the door behind me. Not because I’m afraid of the man in the next room. Because I’m afraid of myself.
And afraid of this feeling that hasn’t stopped building since his arrival. This tension with nowhere to go. Just tightening… pulling toward the breaking point. Like barbed wire stretched beyond its strength.
I leave my clothes in a pile on the floor, stepping beneath hot water that washes over aching muscles. Days and days of work with no end. And always the same desire, the same surge the closer I get to the ranch house… and him.
My mind replays our earlier conversation. Where I asked him if I smell bad.
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.
But not as much as the fingers that slide between my legs, sinking into heat and moisture. I’m dripping for a man I barely know. One who’s made it clear he only commits to leaving.
My fingers slide, the stretch tight. But it’s not friction I need.
It’s him.
I lean against the shower stall, breathing too fast. The cool tile takes some of the sting out of the yearning that never ends when Kael’s near.
My heart skips a beat even thinking his name.
“Desperate.” I brace myself, resting my forehead against the wall. “He couldn’t make it any clearer that he’s not staying. That he’s not interested in you.”
Still, that throb settles low. Teases and twists me. Then does it again until I can’t keep my fingers away.
Until I’m spent, shaking… and wholly unsatisfied.
God.
And my mind wanders… it never stops wandering to tanned flesh that glows and hums… and bodies pressed together without an inch of yield.
That doesn’t help.
I turn the faucet to cold, force myself to stay beneath the icy stream until my teeth chatter.
But it can’t wash away the need. Too deep for words. Inevitable and impossible all at once.
Afterward, I stand in front of the mirror, scrutinizing my too-broad hips. The roundness I can pinch at my waist. And my thighs. Too full, too round.
“You’re not his type. Simple as that.”
The words fall—heavy, hollow.
I dress quietly, then pad down the creaking stairs. He saw me. He knows. But he’s also my employee, and I can’t put this off any longer.
Delectable flavors greet my nostrils. Fresh-baked cornbread and something spicy and savory.
I stand in the kitchen, hands on my hips, and mouth hanging open. “What are you doing?”
Kael moves around the small space, too large for everything. He wears a red half-apron, looking like the outlaw chef from a salsa commercial.
“Cooking,” he grunts.
“I see that.” My eyes dart from a boiling pot of something red, thick, and meaty to the countertop where a glass casserole dish of cornbread cools.
“Figured you could use a break.”
“But it’s part of the deal.”
“What deal?” he asks.
“That I provide room and board. That comes with food.”
He shrugs, turquoise eyes dark, pupils blown. “Figured you got overheated this afternoon. Needed a break from the oven.”
A whimper escapes me before I can stop it. My cheeks turn red.
He scowls, hand coming up to rub the tattoos beneath his shirt. “Torture,” he whispers to himself.
“You okay?”
He nods once. Topic of conversation closed.
“Can I help?”
“No,” he growls. “Better for you to stay back. Maybe in the living room. Or upstairs.”
Same treatment I’ve gotten all week from him. Like he can’t stand to be in the same room with me.
“Shower and all, and I still stink?”
“Lavender and honey. You hardly stink.”
My eyes catch his, but then he looks down, concentrating too hard on the molten mixture bubbling in the pot. Chili, by the looks of it.
It hits like a bolt of lightning. This means something to him. Cooking this meal for us.
Instead of pushing anymore, making myself useful, I head for the fridge. “Beer?”
“Yes, please,” he says, thick-throated.
I grab two Rough & Red Country Reds, popping their caps, and placing one sweating bottle in front of him. He nods in that self-assured way that makes my insides melt.
I round the island, holding myself back. Watching him cook, his jaw tight, concentrating a little too hard.
“How’d you learn to cook?”
He grimaces. “Plenty of time alone. Better than starving.”
“And this meal?”
“Chili and cornbread, nothing special.”
“Smells amazing.”
Pride washes over his face for one second. Or maybe it’s something else. All I know is that the next moment, he shuts back down, guarded.
“Wait and see before making a judgment, primrose,” he grumbles.
“Primrose?” I scowl.
“Suits you.”
“How so?”
“Maybe someday I’ll tell you,” he says, grim-faced. But then he winks, and my insides melt. “Now, back to this meal. I can make no guarantees. But I figured you could use a night off.”
“Thank you.” I grin, cocking my head toward him. “And if it’s not good?” I hold up my long neck. “I’ll have another of these to dampen the tastebuds.”
He chuckles, nodding toward the fridge. “Hope you’re well-stocked.”
“You should give yourself more credit. Can’t be that bad.”
He shrugs, a new vulnerability tugging at the edges of his mouth. Something I haven’t seen before.
“A girl could get used to this, you know.”
His head darts up. “Don’t.” It comes out too firm. Maybe a little panicked.
“Just like my mama always says. A rolling stone gathers no moss.”
“Or complications,” he adds, taking a long drink from his bottle.
I chuckle, smiling from ear to ear now. “Maybe not. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit you’re the best complication I’ve had in a while.”
His face storms. “That why you watch me from the window in the evenings?”
Oh my God. Never have I begged the ground to swallow me more.
His gaze narrows. “Not that I wouldn’t do the same if you were a little less modest.”
“Oh.” It comes out like a puff of air.
His face darkens, white, straight teeth flashing in a lopsided grin. New, too. “Nothing wrong with curiosity. Staying, though. That’s not part of the proposition. Need to remember that.”
Anger surges. This feels too much like being called out and rejected simultaneously. “What you think you saw, Kael, I don’t know. But you’re reading too much into it.”
He sets the ladle down, putting his hands on his hips. “Not saw, felt.”
The last word is visceral. I can taste it. It presses against my skin, his eyes digging deep, taking me apart.
“It’s too hot in here,” I say, too fast, standing up. “If you don’t need anything else, I’ll be outside.”
His face is granite. He nods once, and I head for the front door, fanning myself.
Outside, I pace, scolding myself under my breath. No more peeping on him. No more flirting. You know better, Eliza.
I do know better. And I also know what my mama always said about men like him. The old ones who have been here longer than I care to think. Wildbloods.
Old wives’ tales… got that straight from the source. Yet, I can’t shake the feeling there’s something different about Kael. More than longevity or good genes can explain away.
I feel him before I see him, startling from my thoughts and looking up.
He leans against the door jamb, arms crossed, eyes roving over me in a way I’ve never seen before. Like he’s appreciating me.
More mixed signals. One moment hot, the next cold as a frozen fish. I can’t take this. Maybe he’s right. Maybe he should go.
My mouth works.
Before I can speak, he drawls low and smooth, “Dinner’s ready, primrose.”
We eat in silence, though I long to speak. But with him, there are no right words. Just me being vulnerable and him shutting doors.
Finally, he grumbles, “Not to your liking?”
“Amazing, actually,” I say, grabbing another square of cornbread and slathering it with fresh-churned butter and strawberry jam. “But you said it yourself. Don’t want to get used to it.”
He clutches his shoulder again, thumb rubbing back and forth. “Slept more than a week with the herd. No signs of anything unusual. Untoward.” His eyes cast to the side. “Getting restless. Figure you should start looking for another—”
I cut him off with a nod. Shame floods me. I’ve practically thrown myself at this man and objectified him to boot. And he knows it.
My mouth goes dry, and I can’t meet his gaze anymore. “How soon?”
“Day or two. Better that way.”
I nod.
After dinner, we clean the kitchen in silence, standing next to each other at the sink and washing dishes.
“I should get a dishwasher. Come into the twentieth century at a bare minimum. But maybe I like some things old-fashioned,” I say, trying to make conversation because the silence is deafening.
Our shoulders are so close I can feel him again. Radiating. Throbbing.
He grinds his teeth, face hardening.
I try to ignore him, drying the next plate he hands me. Our fingers brush, and I pull back too quickly. “That… burns.”
The words make no sense. But there’s no other way to describe it.
His forehead knits, and he lets out a low sigh. “It all burns.”
I look up, only realizing after the fact that he’s turned toward me now. Though he towers above me, he’s hunched forward, his turquoise eyes luminous. They drop to my mouth, and warmth crawls over my face.
“You feel it, too?” I ask on an exhale.
“Every moment around you.”
I can feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek. My gaze goes to his too-kissable lips. His hand comes up, rough palm hovering so close to my face that I don’t have to imagine his touch.
“You shouldn’t let me,” he rasps, nostrils flaring.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s wrong.”
My forehead creases, but I don’t move, don’t speak, locked in something I can’t let go.
“It’s not wrong unless we say so.”
Our lips are less than an inch apart. All I have to do is tip up my head, cross the space of one breath, and I’ll taste him.
“God, I wish that were true.” His voice cracks, eyes locked with mine. A primal beat passes between us—like a vibration I can’t hear, but I feel it in every cell of my body.
Doubt swirls around his pupils. And something else, like restraint.
My hand comes up too fast, gripping his beard, pulling him into me. The moment I touch him, something so powerful, so violent quakes through me that my breath catches in my throat, chest expanding on its own.
“W-what is that?” I ask, panting.
“Sin,” he growls, pulling back. “I can’t, Miss Wakefield. Never.”
“Why?” It comes out desperate, hungry. The way a drowning person gasps for air. My chest tightens, heart racing. “If you’re worried about being my employee.”
“No,” he grunts.
“Or… if you’re not thinking what I’m thinking.”
“Not that.” It comes out hard and sharp.
“Then, what is it?”
“Can’t stay.”
He steps back, gripping his arm. His face is pale, pained.
“What’s wrong, Kael?”
“Must stop doing this with you.”
“Why? Are you already committed? Is there somebody else?”
“That’s the problem.”
My heart sinks. “It is?”
His eyes sear into mine for one breathless moment. “There’s no one like you. That’s why I have to go.”