Under His Influence (Cowboys Do It Better #2)

Chapter 1

Late May

Kyla leaned her hip into the barn door, using the familiar strength she had developed from months of forcing her way through tight spaces.

The slider groaned as metal dragged along the track.

She winced at the noise but stepped inside, unable to see for a moment while her eyes adjusted from sunrise to shade.

Her pulse ran ahead of her, restless and lacking caffeine.

She had meant to cut through and leave, but the morning had other plans.

Inside, the air felt cool against her skin. Dust drifted through narrow bands of daylight that fell between the slats. Smells layered over each other in the quiet.

Hay turned sour with sweat, while old wood carried a faint trace of river mud. Iron lingered somewhere in the plumbing, and beneath it all lay the scent of horse. Her sneakers scraped across concrete worn smooth by hooves, each step echoing through the rafters.

She pressed her palm to her chest, counted four beats, and forced her breathing to stay steady. The city never followed her this far, but the memory of it sat tight across her shoulders. Marisol’s place still felt like something borrowed, functional but lacking the right fit.

The plan remained simple. She would go straight through without stopping. She wanted coffee in hand before the day could close in. She narrowed her eyes through the light and ran through a mental list, organizing a schedule no one else would care about.

This was her first morning here without anyone to impress. No one would notice if she left with her dignity and a full mug.

A sound broke the quiet.

Her body registered motion before her mind caught up. Someone moved near the stalls at the far end. Water splashed, soft at first and then harder, as if someone rinsed off boots at the spigot.

She let out a long breath. It was likely a ranch hand or perhaps Marisol’s nephew, up too early for conversation. She turned, expecting flannel and denim.

Her breath left her.

Titus Brooks stood there.

He was naked.

He stood square under the hose bib while morning sun cut through the roof and laid lines across his skin. Water ran over his chest, tracked along the muscle beneath his collarbones, and followed the slope of his abdomen.

His thighs tightened as he shifted his stance. He made no attempt to cover himself. He remained still, showing a calm that did not bend for anyone.

Her lungs felt sharp and useless. Her pulse struck hard against her ribs. She gripped the strap of her canvas tote until her fingers ached. A metallic taste filled her mouth, hot and unwelcome. She did not look away because she could not, and that realization made the moment worse.

A line of water traveled from his shoulder down his torso. Her gaze snapped away and then jerked back, taking in his face and his chest. Titus moved as if clothing had never been required.

The edge of his jaw carried fresh stubble, and his shoulders stayed squared in the space. One hand adjusted the brass valve while the other rested against the pump handle, fingers spread wide. The sight of him stopped every word she might have said.

Heat climbed her throat. She hovered between snapping at him and staring outright, caught by the fact that he stood there without apology. In Brooklyn, she could shrink a man with a glance, but here her thoughts scattered before they formed.

Run.

The command moved through her head, but her body did not follow. Every muscle locked. She counted to three. He stayed where he was, water rolling down his skin as if nothing had changed.

He turned his head. Droplets caught along the line of his jaw and tracked down his throat. His eyes found hers without hesitation, then moved over her face and down her body.

Kyla felt heat creep up her neck. Every scrap of composure vanished. She pulled in a breath of barn air, her dignity already gone somewhere between the straw and the sawdust. She stood there with her nerves stretched tight.

No joke would fix this, and no sharp remark would change the situation. Her tongue pressed flat against her palate, every response lost before it reached her mouth.

Part of her wanted him to grab a towel or to swear at her. She wanted him to break the moment, but he did not. He watched her, water still tracing lines down his skin, entirely at ease in a space that left her exposed.

Her heel slipped on the threshold as she tried to step back. Instinct pushed for retreat, but her footing failed her. Rubber scraped against concrete, loud enough to echo.

He did not move to cover himself. He faced her fully with a steady gaze, a slow grin pulling at one corner of his mouth. It broke every rule she knew.

Her tongue pressed harder against her teeth. Years in kitchens, handling men with nothing but a look and a sharp mouth, meant nothing here. He stood there, built from muscle and certainty, the morning light resting on his skin as if it belonged there.

He shifted his weight. Water ran down his side, catching at the line of an old scar before slipping lower. Details came in fragments. She saw the rise of his chest and the fine hair across it. She noted the veins along his forearm as he reached forward. He stepped close enough to reach past her.

His scent reached her then, clean and stripped down. His hand found the valve, and two fingers turned it. The water cut off. Sound dropped away with it. In the sudden quiet, every breath she took came sharp and uneven.

Water tracked down his body in thin lines, gathering across planes she had no business studying. He stood there unbothered.

Something twisted low in her belly. Her nails pressed into her palm. She dragged her focus upward, fixed it on his collarbones, and told herself she was cataloging errors in anatomy.

Titus bent forward and shook his head, sending water outward in a quick arc. The motion caused a sharp reaction in her body. He straightened again. Sunlight found him through the gaps in the siding, and her gaze slipped where it should not go before snapping back.

Move.

Nothing happened. Her body stayed locked, caught between embarrassment and defiance. He did not step closer, but he did not step away either. He stayed where he was, watching her.

The nearness pressed in on her. It was not something offered, but something claimed. She lifted her chin and fixed her attention on the bridge of his nose, refusing to look lower.

“Enjoy the view?”

His voice sounded rough with sleep and edged with quiet amusement.

Her teeth met hard. A response rose, sharp and unfiltered, but she bit it back.

Control defined her, yet it slipped further with every second he stood there.

He dragged a hand over his face, pushed water back through his hair, and let his arms fall to his sides.

The motion carried a steadiness she did not share.

Her heart beat hard. This was not what she wanted. She wanted routine and distance, not her body reacting in ways she did not trust. She turned sideways, the intent clear in the line of her shoulders. Her eyes flicked up one last time. He was already looking at her.

“Morning, Chef.”

The words knocked her off balance. She spun around, and the door slammed along its track. Sunlight hit her full in the face.

She ran.

Gravel shifted under her shoes as she broke into the yard.

Each inhale felt like it scraped her lungs.

The light outside struck hard, too bright after the barn, and it washed everything into sharp edges.

Heat spread across her face and forearms. She pushed forward, chasing distance and air that did not carry his scent.

The tote slammed against her thigh with every stride.

Her pulse refused to settle, beating high and erratic.

No matter how fast she moved, the image stayed fixed in her mind.

Her foot slid on loose stone, and her ankle twisted as her balance gave way.

She pitched forward, her arms swinging wide to catch herself.

A streak of gray cut across her path. Roscoe shot past her knee, his nails scratching against concrete before he hit the dirt. He barked once and then looped back toward her. He planted himself directly in front of her.

She stumbled, nearly going down as she tried to avoid him, but he held his ground. He shifted with her when she attempted to step around. Every move she made, he countered, angling his body to block her path.

“Not now,” she said, but the words came out thin.

She tried again, stepping to the side with more force, but he moved with her. His shoulder pressed into her shin. His tongue hung loose to one side, and his breathing remained steady.

Her chest rose and fell in sharp pulls, but the edge of panic began to dull. Irritation took its place, cutting through the spiral her thoughts had formed. She forced a slow breath through her nose, her shoulders still tight but no longer locked.

Behind her, the barn door stood open and unchanged. No footsteps followed, and no voice called after her. Only the wide stretch of sky remained. Roscoe shifted his weight and then sat beside her with calm certainty. She stopped trying to move past him.

“I’m not yours,” she muttered.

He ignored her. Instead, he eased down into the grass and rolled onto his side, pressing the length of his back against her shoe. The contact held her in place.

Her knees bent, and she crouched. Her hand found his fur and gripped the thick coat. The texture grounded her. Her breathing slowed, each inhale reaching deeper.

The barn remained behind her, unseen but present. Something lingered at the back of her throat, mineral and sharp. She swallowed twice, but it held fast. Roscoe nudged her calf with his nose and then rested his head near her ankle. A low rumble left him, enough to reinforce his presence.

A quiet sound escaped her that might have been a laugh. It was directed at herself. She straightened slowly, her legs still unsteady, and risked a glance over her shoulder. The barn stood open, empty of movement. No figure filled the doorway.

Roscoe remained pressed against her leg. She turned away. The porch steps met her before she fully registered crossing the yard. By the time she reached the top, her knees gave way. She dropped onto the step and braced her elbows against her thighs.

The taste remained. Metallic. Persistent. Unwelcome.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, but nothing changed. The sensation clung to her. Her lungs pulled in air more steadily now, though her body still carried the aftermath of the encounter.

The world around her came into focus in pieces. Dew clung to the grass, and the wood beneath her palm scraped against her skin. A bird called somewhere beyond the fence line.

Roscoe climbed the step beside her and settled against her hip. She let him stay. Her fingers slipped into his fur, tracing the texture as his breathing worked its way into her own, drawing it into a controlled rhythm.

She kept her gaze forward. The barn stood still. Nothing moved in the doorway. The fields stretched beyond it, wide and ordinary.

The realization settled in without warning. It had nothing to do with him alone. It was not the fact of him or the way her body responded. It was how quickly everything she relied on gave way.

Years spent shaping herself into something strong enough to dominate every room had broken apart in seconds. This left her exposed in a way she did not recognize.

She pressed her tongue against her teeth, testing that awareness. It did not bruise under the pressure. Roscoe’s breathing deepened, and one of his paws twitched against her boot. She dragged her thumb along the faded burn scar inside her forearm, grounding herself in something she understood.

Whatever had shifted inside her had not broken clean. It left space behind, though she did not know for what. Roscoe let out a soft huff and pressed closer. The barn remained empty. She pushed to her feet.

Inside, the kitchen waited in silence. The chill from the night still lingered in the tile. Kyla shut the door with force and moved straight into her routine. Her hands took over where her thoughts stalled.

She crossed the worn linoleum, her bare arms tightening against the cooler air. The old stove stood in the corner, offering no comfort but demanding none.

She opened cabinets in quick succession. Mugs knocked against one another, and tins shifted with a dull clatter as she searched. Coffee was the only thing that mattered. She set beans into the grinder, filled the kettle, and placed it on the burner. Each movement came out sharper than intended.

Her gaze moved across the space. The knife block leaned against the backsplash, and recipe cards curled at the edges. Her hands did not stop, yet the image returned. She saw water moving along his hip and light across his shoulder. Her breath pushed out through her teeth.

“No,” she said under her breath.

She scooped grounds into the carafe, each motion steady despite the distraction.

“I’m not doing this.”

Her voice carried further this time. She kept moving.

Routine had always been enough. She could build a day out of tasks and stack responsibility until there was no space left.

Still, the image stayed. The kettle began to rattle as heat built beneath it.

Her tongue pressed against the roof of her mouth, and the same metallic trace lingered there.

She braced both hands against the butcher block, fingers spread against the surface as she forced her breathing to stay even. Air in. Air out. Slow and controlled. Her gaze stayed fixed on the counter.

Whatever this place demanded from her, she would not let it come down to that. She would not let it be about him or a moment she could not control.

She could deny it. She could work past it until it no longer had a place in her thoughts. If she had to, she would tell herself a different story until it became her truth. The taste in her mouth did not fade. It stayed, refusing to let her forget.