Her Cowboy Boss. Patricia Johns

She looked up as he came in.

      “Morning,” she said, a smile on her lips. Her hair was a little tousled, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup—just that milky white skin and the red fringe of her lashes. “So what’s the plan?”

      “We have to put out thirty-five pack lunches,” Hank said. “And get breakfast cooked. I can do the lunches.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a box of hairnets. “You should probably use one of these.”

      That should make her a little less appealing to the guys.

      “Of course.” She flushed as she pulled her hair back, then twisted it into a bun at the base of her neck. “Give me a hand?”

      He stretched out a hairnet and stepped closer so he could put it on her. She smelled good—that feminine mix of scents that a man never could identify. When he put the hairnet over her shining hair, his fingers brushed her neck. It had been a long time since he’d been this close to a woman, and he steeled himself to her softness, then took a step back.

      “You’ll probably want to start with corn bread,” he said, trying to keep on task. “The old cook used to make it in batches—at least that’s how he explained it to me before he left. The ovens hold eight pans at a time, and he did two batches...” He relayed what he’d been told, and showed her the recipe book. Avery gave him a quick nod.

      She picked it up easily, which was a relief, because he wasn’t sure he knew what he was doing, either. They needed to feed thirty-five men before they left for the fields, and that was a bigger job than he’d imagined. But they’d have food out there in an hour’s time, and that was the goal. He worked on turkey sandwiches and cream cheese bagels, the results less than attractive but definitely edible.

      “So tell me about you,” she said as she cracked eggs into the mixing bowl.

      “Not much to tell,” he said.

      “There’s always something to tell,” she replied. “Is your family from Hope?”

      “Born and raised.”

      “You said your parents are in Florida now, right? Do you miss them?”

      “I’m thirty-five,” he said with a short laugh. “I’m a grown man.”

      “I didn’t ask how old you were,” she retorted. “I asked if you missed them.”

      Did he? Sometimes. But he could pick up a phone and call them whenever he wanted. They texted him pictures of geckos and potted cactus plants from their stone-covered yard. Not the life for him—he liked the fields, the cattle. When he retired, he wanted to own a little cabin somewhere with a fireplace and a dog.

      “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But we keep in touch.”

      “Shoot...” She dropped an eggshell on the table. “I’ve lost count and the yolks are broken. Okay, I’m quadrupling the batch—” She was silent for a moment, then continued, “No, I’m good... I think... We’ll see.”

      What was it about her, standing there ruining a perfectly good meal—he could feel it happening, like lightning in the air—that she still managed to be so blasted likable?

      “My mother always said a man expects a woman to be able to cook,” she said, shooting him an amused look. “I’m a walking disappointment.”

      She fiddled with a few switches on the mixer until it turned on, the motor whirring softly as the large bowl turned.

      “My ex-wife could cook like a pro,” he said with a shrug. “And she was still impossible to live with.”

      He suppressed an oath. He hadn’t meant to mention Vickie. That was personal, and this woman was a virtual stranger.

      “What happened?” she asked, planting her hands on her hips while she watched the mixer spin.

      “We grew apart.”

      That was the BS line most people used—the explanation that covered a hundred tiny betrayals before the ultimate one. Sometimes the ultimate betrayal wasn’t even that big—it was just the last one before both parties gave up. No one just up and got divorced; they crept toward it at a snail’s pace and pretended everything was fine until one day it wasn’t.

      “I don’t believe that,” Avery said, her tone unchanged. “My mom got divorced when I was seventeen, so I’ve seen it up close and personal. No one grows apart—they’re pushed that way.”

      “And what was their problem?” he asked, trying to divert that attention away from his life. She seemed to like to talk, so it was better to focus it on her, in his opinion.

      “He wanted to be the man of the house and call the shots,” she said, reaching into the bowl with a spatula. “And he was terrible with money, but he wouldn’t let her handle the finances because he was the man. She couldn’t just watch him spend them into the poorhouse, and he couldn’t just watch her take care of the banking. It was a no-win situation.”

      “Okay.” She seemed to have a pretty good grasp on her mother’s failed marriage.

      “So what happened to yours?” she prompted.

      She was turned away from him, focused on pouring flour into the mixing bowl. He didn’t really mean to start talking about himself, but when he opened his mouth, it came out before he could think better of it.

      “Vickie was more social than I was. She was a flirt, and I didn’t like it. I loved horses and cattle, and she liked the Honky Tonk and dancing. There wasn’t much overlap in our interests.”

      “That was it? Different interests?” She turned toward him, as if this really mattered to her.

      “Well, that and Vickie thought that finally having a child together might solve our problems, and I’d disagreed. Babies bring more stress. They don’t fix problems. Turns out not having a baby didn’t fix it, either.”

      “That’s a more honest answer.” She smiled weakly. “Sorry. It must have been painful.”

      “Yeah, I got over it.”

      “How long ago was it?” she asked.

      “Five years.”

      “I don’t think you’re over it,” she said, flicking off the mixer. Her tone was so matter-of-fact that he nearly laughed.

      “You don’t know me,” he retorted, stopping in midslice with a bagel. “How do you know what I’m over?”

      “Are you married?” she asked. “Girlfriend? Fiancée?”

      “No.”

      “You’re good-looking, fit, technically available...” Her gaze moved over him from head to toe, then color suffused her cheeks. “If you were over her, you’d be snapped up.”

      She thought he was good-looking, did she? He liked that. And she had a bit of a point—he wasn’t really available. He was no idealistic young cowpoke who thought love could conquer all. He was dusted up, scraped over and a little more cynical about the longevity of relationships. He and Vickie hadn’t just split up, she’d left him for a guy she’d met online.

      “How long were you married?” she asked.

      “Twelve years. We got married right out of high school,” he said.

      “Ouch.” She cast him a pitying look, and he scowled. He didn’t need sympathy.

      “So what about you?” he asked. “You said you didn’t have anyone waiting for you.”

      “I was dating a guy,” she said. “Can you reach those for me?”

      Her change in topic was slightly jarring, and he looked over to see what she was referring to. There were some metal pans high on a shelf, and he put down the knife and sauntered over to where she stood. The soft scent of whatever perfume she was wearing tugged at him as he reached for