Damian
Istand at the kitchen counter drinking coffee and watching Sabrina through the window.
She’s sitting on the front porch with her own mug between both hands.
The sun has barely cleared the pasture, and everything outside is washed in that pale morning light that makes the ranch look better than anywhere else on earth.
She looks like she belongs there. And I like it too damn much.
It’s been less than a week since she showed up, and somehow I’ve gone from wondering whether I made the stupidest decision of my life to wondering what it’ll take to keep her here.
I notice when she walks into a room. I notice when she leaves one.
Every night, I lie in bed listening to her move around across the hall and thinking about how close she is.
Then I remember we spend half our time arguing, and I wonder whether the agency matched us by throwing two names into a hat.
Maybe we’re wrong for each other. That would explain why everything turns into a fight. Coffee. Towels. Fence wire. Which cabinet the plates belong in, even though they’ve been in the same damn cabinet for years.
Then again, Sabrina argues with me and stays. She gets up every morning, pulls on jeans, and follows me outside even though the work leaves her sore. She doesn’t ask me to make things easy. She just digs in and gives back whatever I throw at her.
I like that about her. Hell, I like a lot of things about her.
The problem is I haven’t given her much reason to like me.
I forgot what day she was arriving, left her at the station, watched her load her own suitcases, and acted like she’d committed some kind of crime by looking around my house. Since then, I’ve picked at nearly everything she’s done.
She was right about me not thinking through what it would mean for an actual woman to show up. A wife sounded simple when she was still an idea. Someone at the table. Someone in my bed. Kids someday. I didn’t think much about what she’d need from me.
I’ve worked cattle through storms, fixed a tractor with half the right parts, and stitched up my own hand rather than drive forty miles to urgent care. None of that helps me figure out what Sabrina wants when she looks at me like she’s waiting to see whether I’ll disappoint her again.
I finish my coffee and set the mug in the sink. When I step onto the porch, Sabrina glances over her shoulder. “Morning.”
“Mornin’.” I lean against the post and look out toward the pasture. “Let’s go into town today.”
Her eyebrows rise over the edge of her mug. “Town?”
“I’ve got errands.”
“All right.”
“Also, you’ve barely seen the place.”
“I’ve seen the train station.”
“That’s not town. That’s a building where people wait to leave.”
Her mouth twitches. “And make excellent first impressions.”
I ignore that. “You hungry?”
“A little.”
“I’ll make eggs.”
She lowers the mug and studies me. “Are you sure that’s safe?”
I push away from the post before she can keep at it. “You want breakfast or not?”
“Yes.”
“Then quit complaining.”
“I haven’t complained once.”
“You were about to.”
Her laugh follows me into the house.
We eat, then get through the morning chores without a serious argument. Sabrina helps feed the horses, collects eggs, and holds a board in place while I fix a loose section of the chicken coop. She still works too hard, but I’ve learned telling her that only makes her work harder out of spite.
By the time we climb into the truck, she’s got dust on her jeans and a streak of dirt across one cheek.
I feel the urge to wipe it off. But I don’t.
On the drive into town, Sabrina sits with one arm resting near the open window, watching the road and the fields beyond it.
When the first buildings come into view, I point out the feed store, hardware shop, bank, pharmacy, diner, and church.
She looks at everything with more interest than I expected.
The town isn’t much. A few blocks of brick storefronts, some houses, and a stop sign nobody comes to a complete stop at unless the sheriff is nearby.
The flower baskets hanging from the streetlamps are my mother’s doing.
She’s on some committee that meets twice a month to argue about making the place look welcoming.
“It’s charming,” Sabrina says.
I glance over. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I like it.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I wasn’t sure what to expect.”
“You expected one dirt road and a saloon?”
“Maybe two dirt roads.”
I snort and pull into the bank parking lot. “Don’t get too impressed. The diner closes at eight.”
“That might be a dealbreaker.”
“You haven’t tried the pie.”
“So there’s still hope.”
I look at her and catch a smile she’s trying to hide. Christ, she’s even prettier when she isn’t pissed at me.
The bank takes longer than it should because everyone wants to meet her. News travels fast around here, and a strange woman riding into town with me might as well be a parade. Everyone wants to know how we met. We keep it vague and tell them we met online.
By the time we reach the grocery store, Sabrina seems to have decided the town isn’t terrible. She pushes the cart while I pick up the usual things, and then she starts adding vegetables, herbs, and other unnecessary complications.
I hold up a bundle of celery. “What’s this for?”
“Dinner,” she says.
“What’re you making?”
“Beef stew.”
“Stew doesn’t need this much stuff.”
“Good stew does.”
I grunt and toss the celery into the cart. Maybe she’s right.
We’re heading toward the register when the flowers near the front catch my eye. I slow down.
Sabrina takes another few steps before noticing. “What?”
I stare at the buckets. There are too many damn choices. Yellow, red, pink, white. Some big, some small. Most of them look exactly the same to me.
“What kind do you like?” I ask.
She looks at me, then at the flowers. “You’re asking me?”
“No, I’m asking the old lady by the freezer.”
Sabrina presses her lips together. “I’m not picky.”
“That’s not an answer. You’ve got to like one more than the others.”
“They’re all pretty.”
I reach for a bunch with white and yellow flowers because they look less likely to mean something I don’t understand. “These?”
Her expression warms. “Those are nice.”
“Nice?”
“They’re beautiful.”
I put them in the cart before I can change my mind.
The flowers sit between us on the drive home, wrapped in plastic and taking up more space than it feels like they should.
I keep waiting for Sabrina to say something about it.
She doesn’t. When we reach the house, she just carries the flowers inside while I unload the groceries.
I come into the kitchen and she’s washing out an empty pickle jar.
“Was I supposed to buy a vase?” I ask.
“No,” she says lightly. “This’ll work just fine.”
I watch her trim the stems with one of my knives, arrange the flowers in the jar, and set it in the middle of the dining table. Like that, the whole room looks different. Sabrina adjusts one of the stems, then looks at me over the top of them.
Our eyes meet. I feel the moment hit deep in my chest. She knows why I bought them. I know she knows. For once, there isn’t a smart-ass comment between us to make it easier.
She looks away first and starts putting groceries into the refrigerator. “I’ll make the stew tonight.”
“Hope it’s worth all that celery.”
She laughs. “I think you can handle a few extra vegetables, Damian.”
The sound of her laughter lingers in my chest longer than it should. I grab my hat and head outside. There’s plenty of work to keep me busy. I stay out until the sun is dropping and my shirt is stuck to my back.
The second I come back to the house and open the door, the smell hits me. Beef. Bread. Garlic.
Sabrina is standing at the stove, stirring a pot. She looks over her shoulder. “You’re filthy.”
“I’ve been working.”
“So have I, and I don’t have mud on my face.”
“I can fix that.”
Her eyes widen, then narrow. “Don’t even think about it.”
I look into the pot. “Smells good.”
“It is good.”
“You sound sure.”
“I know how to cook.”
“That remains to be seen.”
She points the spoon at me. “Go shower.”
I ought to remind her it’s my house. Instead I go. By the time I come back downstairs, she’s set the table. The flowers are still in the middle, and the stew is steaming in two bowls.
I take a bite. Then another.
Sabrina watches me. “Well?”
“It’s decent.”
She stares at me.
“Fine,” I admit. “It’s good.”
“Just good?”
“Don’t push it.”
She smiles and starts eating.
Dinner is easier than the others have been.
We still argue about the amount of salt I add and whether bread belongs in the bowl or beside it, but neither of us gets mad enough to leave.
Afterward, we wash the dishes together. She washes because she claims I don’t use enough soap.
I dry because apparently there’s a wrong way to stack wet plates.
We play cards for a while, then sit on the porch as the sky darkens. The air is cool, and when Sabrina rubs her hands over her arms, I debate whether to go inside for a blanket.
But then she stands, ready to go inside. “Thank you for today. I liked going into town, and the flowers were thoughtful.”
I shrug. “You said you liked that kind of thing.”
“I do.”
She smiles at me. It’s not a teasing smile, not a guarded one. Just warm.
“Goodnight, Damian.”
“Night.”
I watch her go inside, then stay on the porch, hoping some time alone will clear my head. But it doesn’t help. An hour later, I’m flat on my back in bed, staring at the ceiling.
I can’t stop thinking about her.
Her curvy legs in those jeans. The way she looked at me over the flowers. The fact that she’s sleeping twenty feet away and I’m apparently supposed to act like that doesn’t matter.
Impossible.
I throw back the covers and head downstairs for a drink.
The kitchen light is already on. Sabrina stands at the counter with her back to me, wearing a sleep shirt that stops halfway down her thighs. Her legs are bare. Her hair hangs loose. She has my whiskey bottle tilted over a glass.
She turns at the sound of my footsteps and nearly spills the drink. “You scared me.”
“I walked into the room.”
“You could make some noise.”
“Stomp?”
Her mouth twitches. “Something like that.”
I move closer. “Didn’t know you drank whiskey.”
“I don’t, usually.”
“Then why’re you drinking mine?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Me neither.”
Her eyes meet mine for half a second, then shift away. “Finally, something we have in common.”
I grab another glass from the cabinet and step behind her to reach for the bottle. My chest brushes her shoulder.
The air feels thick all of a sudden. I can feel the heat coming off her bare skin. My hand closes around the bottle, but I don’t pick it up.
I’ve spent all week thinking about kissing her. But I’m done thinking. I put the glass down, wrap an arm around her waist, and pull her against me.
Sabrina gasps and turns in my arms. Her hands land against my chest, but she doesn’t push me away.
The second my mouth hits hers, every fight, every dirty look, every hour I’ve spent wanting her comes apart at once. She kisses me back just as hard.
I back her against the counter. Her body presses into mine, warm and soft everywhere I’m hard, and the sound she makes against my mouth almost finishes me.
I kiss her deeper. She opens for me, and I drag her closer until there’s no space left between us. My cock is already rock hard, pressed against her stomach, and when she shifts against me, I nearly lift her onto the counter.
Then Sabrina jerks her mouth away.
She turns and braces both hands against the counter, breathing hard.
I stand behind her, trying not to grab her again. “What?”
“This isn’t a good idea.”
I stare at the back of her head. “Why the hell not?”
She glances over her shoulder, lips wet and swollen. “Because we fight constantly.”
“So?”
“So people who can barely spend five minutes together without arguing shouldn’t be involved.”
“We did fine today.”
“That was one day.”
“It was a good one.”
“One good day doesn’t mean we’re compatible.”
I step closer. “Maybe we’re not as wrong for each other as you think we are.”
She turns to face me and folds her arms across herself. “Damian, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with someone who treats every disagreement like a fight he has to win.”
I open my mouth to argue. Then close it. Because that would prove her point.
“I’ve been an asshole,” I say.
Her eyebrows lift. “You think?”
“I knew I was one before you got here.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“No. But I’ve been worse with you.”
“Why?”
Because when I’m with you, I don’t know what the hell to do with myself.
I’m not saying that.
“I’m used to being alone,” I say instead. “Nobody questions me. Nobody cares what I’m doing or how I say something.”
“And you liked that?”
“I thought I did.”
Her expression shifts.
I rub a hand over my jaw. “I haven’t treated you right. I know that.”
She stares at me, like she isn’t sure what to do with everything I’m saying.
“I can do better,” I say.
“You should.”
“I will.”
“I’ll believe you can change when I see it,” she says.
I point toward the table. “What do you call those?”
She looks at the flowers. “A nice gesture. It’s going to take more than one bouquet.”
“How much more?”
“Time. Effort. Consistency.”
“That sounds expensive.”
She rolls her eyes.
I take a step toward her. “Fine. I can do time and effort.”
“And consistency?”
“We’ll see.”
“That isn’t reassuring.”
“I’m being honest.”
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling now.
“And don’t forget this goes both ways,” I say. “You’re supposed to romance me, too.”
“Are you still on that?”
“I like shoulder rubs.”
“You’ve never had one from me.”
“I might like yours.”
“Unbelievable.”
“And compliments.”
“You have enough confidence.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear how good I look.”
She gives me a slow once-over that sends heat straight through me. “I already told you that.”
“Tell me again.”
“No.”
“Sabrina.”
Her gaze drops to my mouth. Mine drops to hers. For a second, I think she’s going to let me kiss her again.
But then she says, “We should go back to bed.”
“Together?”
“To our own beds.”
She steps around me, knocks back her drink, and walks out of the kitchen. I watch her bare legs all the way to the stairs. Then I pour myself a shot and swallow it in one burn. It doesn’t help a damn bit.