Maisey Yates - Wild Ride Cowboy

He was too hard. Too masculine. And she would have said she was definitely not the kind of woman who was into overly muscled physiques and body hair.

Apparently, part of her appreciated those things. At least, as an objective observer and admirer of...beautiful things. Though, thinking of him as beautiful in any context just seemed wrong.

Alex wasn’t beautiful. He was too hard to be beautiful.

“You’re back,” he said.

His voice sounded so casual and normal, and she realized it was because he hadn’t just experienced an entire internal episode that had caused him to question fundamental things about himself.

“Yeah. I had an earlier shift today. Are you...are you working a bachelorette party, or...”

“It’s hot,” he said, looking down at his own bare chest, which prompted her to follow his line of sight.

Good God.

There was sweat rolling down between his pectoral muscles—see, that she remembered—and it should have looked gross or unclean in some way, and instead she found it fascinating. Vital. Alive.

That made her shiver.

She wrenched her gaze away from his body, and forced herself to look at his green eyes. She found that didn’t help at all. Her mouth felt like it had been stuffed full of cotton. Her head did too, actually.

“I can honestly say I’ve never decided to work shirtless just because it was hot,” she said, immediately regretting the words, because there really was no point in continuing to talk about his state of undress. Talking about it only drew attention to the fact that she was aware of it.

She did not want to be aware of it.

She took a step back.

He lifted a shoulder and she forced herself to keep her eyes locked with his. To not look down and see exactly what that motion had caused the musculature on his chest and stomach to do in response.

Her fingertips tingled and she wiggled them.

He didn’t say anything, he was just looking at her. She wasn’t sure what he wanted her to do. What he wanted her to say. She supposed it didn’t matter either way. Because since when had she cared about his expectations or whether or not she met them? She didn’t.

“What exactly did you do today?”

His lips tipped upward into a lopsided smile. “Is that the game? Are we pretending that you’re the ranch owner and I’m the lowly ranch hand?” He shoved his hands in his pockets and yet again, it was a study in self-control to keep her eyes on his face. “Because I do like to play games sometimes, honey. As long as you understand who’s really in charge here.”

She forgot about his bare chest. “You’re an ass.”

“Maybe, but I’m a hard-working one. One who’s going to help fix your situation here. Come with me.” And just like that, she found herself trailing behind him, any illusion of home-court advantage lost as she stared at the broad expanse of his back while they walked to the barn.

His back was nearly as problematic as his chest. It filled her vision, and she found herself pondering the exact nature of what a nice-looking back was. She had never really considered it before.

She didn’t allow herself to look below his belt line. Because she was a lady. A lady who had looked at Asher’s butt this morning. It was her preferred butt. Alex’s was not. And she wasn’t going to test the theory by looking. She didn’t need to.

Not that casual perusal of the male form equated to feelings.

It was just that she wasn’t the kind of person who engaged in that kind of casual perusal. She liked Asher. Had actual, deep feelings for him, harbored hopes about a future. It didn’t matter how good-looking another guy was.

Asher, seeing him every morning, getting her daily coffee—which she summarily dumped out—from him had provided a kind of light in a long dark tunnel.

Alex’s bare chest could not compete with that.

Alex paused at the barn door. “After you.”

“Now you’re being chivalrous?”

He shrugged again, then went ahead and walked into the barn in front of her. She scowled, but followed after him.

And then she stopped dead. There were coils of fence rolled up and stacked six deep against the back wall. A pile of lumber lay on its side on the ground, fenceposts, she assumed.

And there was a tractor sitting in the middle of the barn that had been pulled apart.

“What exactly are you doing with the tractor?” she asked.

“Making sure it’s fixed.”

“You’re going to fix it? Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Kind of. I have a little bit of experience doing emergency fixes on heavy equipment. Plus I called Anna McCormack for a consult. She said she could order a couple of parts for us at a lower rate, and gave me some instructions over the phone.”

“Doesn’t she want to do it so she can get paid?”

“She was happy enough to help me out. I explained the situation to her.”

Right. So Clara was on the receiving end of pity tractor help. Well, wasn’t that what all of this was? Pity help?

“Great,” she said, knowing she didn’t actually sound like she thought it was great.

“And the fencing is for the bison.”

“Right. I forgot you were actually doing that. Bison.”

“Unless you’re planning on running this place the way your father did, then I think you’re right and beef is completely pointless. But if you want to go the direction of that more organic, specialized stuff...”

“Right. I get it.”

“You only have to put up with me for a limited time, Clara, and the sooner we get things sorted out, the sooner I can get out of your hair. I’ve actually done research on this,” he said, the expression on his face sincere and not at all pitying. She wasn’t sure what to do with that. “And I mean, I went over a lot of options. Sheep. Llamas.”

“Llamas?”

“I discounted that pretty quick. They’re mean as far as I can tell.”

“Don’t they spit?”

“That is what I hear,” he said.

“I could do without spitting livestock, to be honest. Apart from everything else, I don’t need an animal hocking a loogie on me while I’m trying to take care of it.”

“Fortunately for you, bison don’t spit. I think they’re the best option for this area, and for your property in particular. But they need damn sturdy fences.”

“Apparently,” she said, surveying the equipment.

“I saw your beehives, or whatever those are. I didn’t want to get close, you know, in case I became a target.”

“I have a suit,” she said. “A bee suit.”

He arched a brow. “Like a bee costume?”

“No,” she responded primly. “The kind you put on that keeps them from stinging you.”

“Less interesting than what I was imagining.” His smile was wicked, and she wondered exactly what he had been imagining. Probably nothing. Probably he was messing with her. Or maybe it was still just the fact that he wasn’t wearing a shirt.

“Less interesting, maybe,” she said, still not quite sure what he meant by that, “but effective.”

“Well, sometime you’ll have to show me. The bee suit. And the bees.”

“Sure,” she responded.

He reached over toward a peg on the wall and took his T-shirt off it. It was gray and faded, and when he pulled it over his head, she was powerless against the urge to watch the way the motion affected his muscles. The way they shifted. The way they bunched. Rippled.

The material of the T-shirt was thin, and it clung to his body, and for some reason, it didn’t seem any less obscene than his near nudity had. She swallowed, and it was hot and prickly.

“Dinner should be ready,” he said.

She blinked. “Dinner?”

“Yeah, I put something in the Crock-Pot.”

“I have a Crock-Pot?” She wrinkled her nose.