Part Time Cowboy. Maisey Yates

to bite her own fist to keep from whimpering.

      What the hell was wrong with her? She didn’t lust after guys she didn’t like. Anymore. Sure, she’d lusted after him—mildly, until he’d arrested her. But she’d grown up since then.

      She liked it simple, she liked it happy. She liked nice men who wanted a sweet, easy relationship, and when that wasn’t easily available, she did without.

      She’d been without for a while, so she was clearly just having a weak moment on the physical desire front. And hey, that happened. But that didn’t mean she was going to do anything about it. Most especially not with Eli Garrett. No, thank you.

      She wasn’t a fling girl anyway. Mainly because the idea of getting naked with a total stranger was not at all appealing. She always got to know a guy before she hopped into bed with him. And getting to know the guy made it not a fling, but a relationship.

      And if relationships were not, at present, a happening thing, flings weren’t a happening thing ever. Ergo, sex was not a happening thing for her.

      Ergo his abs had just killed 65 percent of her brain cells.

      “Just...the porch is good,” she said, walking backward, her eyes still trained on him. She grabbed one of the plastic bags, which was lying, tipped and spilled, on the tailgate, and bent, her eyes still on Eli as he turned and started walking toward the house.

      His butt.

      Oh, my.

      Yep. She’d just crossed over into shameless ogling and she didn’t even care. Didn’t mind even a little bit that she didn’t even like the guy.

      Why not look at him for a minute? The fact was, thrills were few and far between for her. Connor might be just as hot. She might ogle him next.

      But he wasn’t here. So for now she would just take a moment to note the way the denim cupped Eli’s muscular, rounded...

      “So...you gonna nail this up or what?”

      It took her a full second to realize “nail this up” wasn’t a euphemism for a sex act.

      “The molding?”

      “Yes,” he said, setting it down across the porch.

      She scrambled to pick everything up, avoiding the broken pendant light and gathering the rest of her odds and ends. “That was the plan. There’s a nail gun in the shed. At least, I think Connor had that on the list. He left me a list.”

      “Decent of him.”

      “He’s been sort of the invisible man since I arrived. He left instructions, but I haven’t seen him.”

      “Yeah, well, he’s like that. Actually—” he bent down to straighten up one of the trim pieces and she cocked her head to the side and watched the muscles on his back shift and bunch “—he didn’t tell me anyone was coming to rent the place.” He straightened. “Let alone signing a long-term lease and spending the next five years running a bed-and-breakfast on my damn property.”

      “It’s sort of a shared property. If you want to be technical.” She scurried up toward the porch, her bag in hand.

      “Right. So how is it you’re going to install all this? And why are you installing all this?”

      “I want the trim to match. Obviously over the years some things were replaced at different times and some of it doesn’t match. The wood in here is beautiful and I don’t want anything detracting from it.”

      “But even the replacement molding is older than...we are. It might as well be original.”

      “Well, no, it might as well not be, because if it were, it would match. It gets accolades for age but I’m still replacing it.”

      “So you’re going to put this cheap-ass stuff in there?”

      “It is not cheap-ass! Look at how much of my budget is devoted to this and you will see just how not cheap-ass it is. It’s very nice, actually. And if all you’re going to do is insult my molding, then...get off my porch.”

      He crossed his arms and leaned against the railing. “I don’t think I will. It’s my porch. You’re just leasing it.”

      “I have rights!”

      “It’s a bed-and-breakfast. What if I want to make a reservation?”

      “It’s not open yet.”

      “It could open faster if you didn’t want to replace perfectly good molding.”

      She sputtered, her comebacks all jumbled around because...biceps. And forearms. And things. Why was he so distracting even while he was annoying? Why did it seem like the annoying only made it all more interesting?

      She had no idea what was wrong with her. She needed some wine. A bottle of wine. And for him to go away. She was done with her thrills. She was on thrill overload. She was clearly giddy with the thrills and had crossed over into crazy town.

      “What else do you have in the bag?” he asked.

      “Things,” she said.

      His dark eyes narrowed. “What kinds of things?”

      “Things of a home-improvement nature. Which I will use to improve this home.”

      “What the hell does it need improving for?”

      She huffed and stalked to the front door, fishing the key out of her purse before pushing the door open. “Come in and see for yourself.”

      She walked in ahead of him, trying not to be overly conscious of just how big and masculine and there he was.

      “Look,” she said. “And by that I mean really look, like someone who’s never seen this place before, and not like someone who loves it because it’s sentimental.”

      “Who said it was sentimental?”

      “Obviously it’s sentimental. You’re attached to molding.”

      “I just don’t like change,” he said, the words coming out stilted.

      “Oh, really?”

      “There’s an order to things,” he muttered. “It’s easier to keep track of them that way.”

      She waved a hand. “Well, I love change. It’s what makes life interesting.”

      “Which begs the question why you’re back here. Committed to five long years...”

      “Because there’s no place like home. I’ve been all over the country and I’ve never been anywhere that felt like Copper Ridge.”

      He paused, studying her far too intently for her liking. “How long did it take you to get that response down so perfectly?”

      Anger sparked through her. Because he had her number. “Are you saying my response seems rehearsed?”

      “Yes. Very. Why are you really here?”

      Oh, damn him. “Because. It was time. Because...I was tired of feeling like I was running away.”

      “From?”

      She lifted a shoulder. “Things.”

      “Same things you got in that bag?”

      “Yep. Nuts, bolts and other assorted crap.”

      Toby chose that moment to come padding down the stairs and into the kitchen.

      “You have a cat,” he said, “in the house.”

      “Yes,” she said. “Where else am I going to keep my cat?”

      “The barn.”

      “You don’t keep a friend in the barn. Well, maybe you keep your friends in the barn. That could be why you don’t have any friends.”

      “I