Maisey Yates - Wild Ride Cowboy

After that, he set out to make his own sandwich—with roast beef, since Clara had used all the turkey, which had originally been for him, dammit—and cheese, lettuce, tomatoes and mayonnaise.

Clara narrowed her eyes and looked at him, where he was standing. “Your sandwich looks gross,” she informed him.

“So does yours,” he said, walking over to the truck and lifting himself up next to her on the tailgate. He pulled a beer out of the chest and popped the top on the edge of the truck bed, and the two of them ate in relative silence, staring out at the work they had done for the day. At the discarded fencing, broad expanse of land and all the work they had ahead of them.

Clara popped the last bite of sandwich in her mouth and brushed crumbs off her lap. Then she lifted her hand, shading her eyes, and looked out toward the horizon. Up at the mountains.

“I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I’ve been this deep into the property,” she said. “I’ve kind of gotten into my routine. Going to Grassroots, doing the small garden, checking on the bees. It keeps me close to the house.”

“Yeah?”

“I think it feels too lonely. I mean, realizing how big this place is, and I’m here all by myself. It just feels sad.”

“You’re not alone anymore,” he said.

At least not for now. But he left that part unsaid. Still, judging by the way she breathed in deep, by the way her shoulders sagged slightly, he could tell she had heard it somehow anyway. That she felt it.

He looked over at her, gazed at her profile, at the way her lips curved down, at that fine blond hair catching in the breeze.

As if sensing his perusal, she looked over at him. The breeze kicked up just then, and he caught her scent. Irish Spring and skin, nothing extraordinarily feminine. Just her.

His stomach tightened, and he found himself fighting the urge to reach out and touch her face, to see if her skin was as soft as he thought it might be.

Instead, he lifted his beer bottle to his lips and took a long, slow drag on it.

Clara looked away sharply, and he wondered if she had somehow sensed his thoughts again.

“We better get back to work,” she said, hopping down off the truck.

He nodded, setting the bottle down. “All right, boss, whatever you say.” And he smiled that easy smile because it was better than honesty at that moment.

As far as he was concerned, it was better than honesty almost always.

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