smile, she placed her hand in his. Soft warmth enveloped his fingers, rocketing up his arm. Fighting rising need, he squeezed her fingers and pumped her hand once. “We’ve got a deal, little lady. Now I’d better get to work before I drop over. I’m bushed.”
He stood and she jumped to her feet. “What do you mean get to work?”
“Ranch duty calls. All the work I didn’t get to today needs doin’.”
“It can’t wait until tomorrow? You’ve had a long day…” Was she worrying about him? Damn, that felt good.
“Nah, having cattle is like having a pack of dogs. I’ve got to water them and check feed troughs.”
“I—” She stared up at him, face light and shadows. “I’ll help if you’d like.”
His stomach tingled with anticipation. “I’d love that. But you’d better have some shoes. Boots if you’ve got ‘em.”
The next two hours were spent working close in the moonlight with only the occasional giggle from Charlotte and the lowing of cows upset by waiting for their dinner. That was the trouble with living so far from neighbors—no one could step in and help in a bind. Then again, the Daltons never got into binds, not with five brothers to pick up the slack.
When Hank and Charlotte returned to the house, grubby and tired, his heart was near bursting. She fit so well here—fit with him. Sometimes words weren’t needed between them, and when they did speak, there was a spark.
His body was growing impatient, but he couldn’t push her. The times she withdrew signaled to him that she might not welcome an advance.
She used the bathroom and when she came out, he had a mug of hot chocolate prepared for her. Her mouth fell open, sweet and so damn kissable. He leaned close, and she wrapped her fingers around the mug. Their fingers brushed. Electricity zipped through his system, lighting up every corner of his lonely self.
“I never knew a man who could make hot chocolate.”
“This ain’t no packet mix either. It’s the real thing, milk and shaved chocolate.” Up close her eyes had blue flecks among the gray.
“Thank you.” Was it his imagination, or was she a bit breathless?
“I’m glad you’re here, Charlotte.”
Slowly, she pulled away, as if finding her fingers glued, taking the mug with her. He followed her to the bottom of the stairs and watched her ass sway with every step. Not only was she tempting on the outside, she was as sweet as honey inside.
“’Night.” His throat was dry and prickly. Maybe he should have fixed himself some hot chocolate.
No, what he needed was a cold shower.
* * *
How was she supposed to work under these conditions? Charlotte could hardly think with six feet of muscled cowboy standing there watching her. Hank leaned against the counter in a beam of sunlight streaming through the kitchen window, arms folded, looking as if he might eat her up.
Mrs. Dalton, or Maggie, as she’d told Charlotte to call her, had been made comfortable on a recliner her husband had dragged into the kitchen. From the depths of the cushions, she had guided Charlotte through a simple breakfast of oatmeal with fruit, a lunch of thick hamburgers on Texas toast and now an apple pie.
Making a pie for the first time was nerve-racking enough without glancing up to find burning hazel eyes on her.
For two days since sitting on the porch swing with Hank, Charlotte had become too focused on him. She knew which line around his eyes crinkled first when he smiled and that he ate his food clockwise, finishing one whole dish before starting on the next.
She also knew he liked looking at her.
When had she last welcomed male attention? More than a year ago, when Stephen had picked her out at the club and asked her to dance. Within two months she’d been situated in his apartment and he was telling her who she could hang out with and which shoes to wear.
She should have recognized how controlling he was before it was too late and he tried to dictate how many days were left of
He stood and she jumped to her feet. “What do you mean get to work?”
“Ranch duty calls. All the work I didn’t get to today needs doin’.”
“It can’t wait until tomorrow? You’ve had a long day…” Was she worrying about him? Damn, that felt good.
“Nah, having cattle is like having a pack of dogs. I’ve got to water them and check feed troughs.”
“I—” She stared up at him, face light and shadows. “I’ll help if you’d like.”
His stomach tingled with anticipation. “I’d love that. But you’d better have some shoes. Boots if you’ve got ‘em.”
The next two hours were spent working close in the moonlight with only the occasional giggle from Charlotte and the lowing of cows upset by waiting for their dinner. That was the trouble with living so far from neighbors—no one could step in and help in a bind. Then again, the Daltons never got into binds, not with five brothers to pick up the slack.
When Hank and Charlotte returned to the house, grubby and tired, his heart was near bursting. She fit so well here—fit with him. Sometimes words weren’t needed between them, and when they did speak, there was a spark.
His body was growing impatient, but he couldn’t push her. The times she withdrew signaled to him that she might not welcome an advance.
She used the bathroom and when she came out, he had a mug of hot chocolate prepared for her. Her mouth fell open, sweet and so damn kissable. He leaned close, and she wrapped her fingers around the mug. Their fingers brushed. Electricity zipped through his system, lighting up every corner of his lonely self.
“I never knew a man who could make hot chocolate.”
“This ain’t no packet mix either. It’s the real thing, milk and shaved chocolate.” Up close her eyes had blue flecks among the gray.
“Thank you.” Was it his imagination, or was she a bit breathless?
“I’m glad you’re here, Charlotte.”
Slowly, she pulled away, as if finding her fingers glued, taking the mug with her. He followed her to the bottom of the stairs and watched her ass sway with every step. Not only was she tempting on the outside, she was as sweet as honey inside.
“’Night.” His throat was dry and prickly. Maybe he should have fixed himself some hot chocolate.
No, what he needed was a cold shower.
* * *
How was she supposed to work under these conditions? Charlotte could hardly think with six feet of muscled cowboy standing there watching her. Hank leaned against the counter in a beam of sunlight streaming through the kitchen window, arms folded, looking as if he might eat her up.
Mrs. Dalton, or Maggie, as she’d told Charlotte to call her, had been made comfortable on a recliner her husband had dragged into the kitchen. From the depths of the cushions, she had guided Charlotte through a simple breakfast of oatmeal with fruit, a lunch of thick hamburgers on Texas toast and now an apple pie.
Making a pie for the first time was nerve-racking enough without glancing up to find burning hazel eyes on her.
For two days since sitting on the porch swing with Hank, Charlotte had become too focused on him. She knew which line around his eyes crinkled first when he smiled and that he ate his food clockwise, finishing one whole dish before starting on the next.
She also knew he liked looking at her.
When had she last welcomed male attention? More than a year ago, when Stephen had picked her out at the club and asked her to dance. Within two months she’d been situated in his apartment and he was telling her who she could hang out with and which shoes to wear.
She should have recognized how controlling he was before it was too late and he tried to dictate how many days were left of
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