Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23288 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23288 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
I poke at the pancakes with my fork, cutting off a bite and examining it like it might bite back. “Not as burnt as I expected,” I remark.
“High praise coming from you,” she quips, rolling her eyes as she sits down beside Carson.
The first bite is… not terrible. Too sweet, with a hint of char, but edible. Carson digs in enthusiastically, syrup dripping down his chin. Layla watches him with a soft smile, and for a moment, the tension eases.
“You’re good with him,” I find myself saying before I can stop the words.
Her eyes flick to mine, surprised. “Thanks. He’s a great kid.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, glancing at Carson, who’s now making a syrup moat around his pancakes. “He is.”
The quiet stretches, comfortable this time, as we all eat. Layla hums under her breath, some upbeat tune that I don’t recognize, but it fills the space in a way that doesn’t feel invasive. I sip my coffee and let it wash over me, a strange warmth settling in my chest.
After breakfast, Carson bolts outside to check on Duke, leaving me and Layla alone in the kitchen. She starts gathering plates, stacking them precariously high.
“You don’t have to—” I start.
“I’ve got it,” she says firmly, cutting me off. “Consider it my rent.”
I watch as she scrubs the syrup-streaked plates, her movements efficient but still a little clumsy. The flannel shifts on her frame, the hem brushing her thighs, and I tear my gaze away, cursing myself.
“What?” she asks, catching me staring.
“Nothing,” I mutter, pushing back my chair. “Just don’t break anything.”
She smirks, tossing a dishtowel over her shoulder. “Relax, Cal. Your kitchen’s safe with me.”
I’m not so sure about that—or anything else—but for now, I let it slide.
I walk out to the barn with something like hope in my step. The morning sun cuts through the thin gap in the barn doors, golden streaks of light falling over the mustangs’ glossy coats. Their restless shuffling fills the air, mingling with the rich scent of hay and leather. I focus on the task at hand, sliding a saddle into place, the repetitive motion grounding me.
I don’t hear her approach until she speaks.
“Good morning, sunshine.” Layla’s voice is syrupy sweet, laced with sarcasm.
I glance over my shoulder, and there she is, standing in the doorway in a pair of my old boots that look way too big and leggings that hug curves I shouldn’t be noticing. Her arms are crossed, and her polished nails tap against her bicep like she’s daring me to say something.
“You lost?” I grumble, turning back to the mustang.
“Nope,” she chirps. “I thought I’d see what a day in the life of a grumpy rancher looks like.”
I don’t bother hiding my sigh. “It’s not a spectator sport.”
“I’m not here to spectate,” she shoots back, striding into the barn like she owns the place. “I’m here to help.”
The word “help” hangs between us, thick with doubt.
“You sure about that?” I ask, leading the mustang out of its stall. “Because helping here isn’t exactly brunch on Fifth Avenue.”
Her smile tightens, but she doesn’t back down. “Try me.”
I almost admire her nerve—almost. “Fine. Start with the hay bales. They don’t stack themselves.”
Her nose scrunches as she glances at the heavy bales, but she doesn’t complain. Instead, she walks over, grabs one, and immediately stumbles under the weight.
I chuckle, low and deep. “Careful, kitten. Don’t break a nail.”
“Don’t worry about my nails,” she shoots back, adjusting her grip and hoisting the bale up with sheer determination. Her form is all wrong, but she’s too stubborn to ask for help.
I lean against the stall door, arms crossed, watching her struggle. Her face flushes with effort, and for some reason, I can’t take my eyes off her. Damn woman has a way of holding my attention, even when I don’t want her to.
“Are you going to stare all day, or are you going to show me how to do it right?” she huffs.
“Thought you didn’t need my help,” I reply, smirking.
Her glare could cut steel. “Did I say that?”
With a shake of my head, I step forward, grabbing the bale from her hands like it weighs nothing. Her eyes widen, but she masks it with another glare.
“Bend your knees, not your back,” I say, demonstrating the proper technique. “Unless you want to be walking like an old lady by next week.”
She watches me intently, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. There’s something about the way her eyes soften, the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, that makes the barn feel a hell of a lot smaller.
“Got it,” she says, her voice quieter than before.
I step back, clearing my throat. “Good.”
When she’s finished, Layla wipes her hands on her leggings, her chest rising and falling with exertion. She’s trying, I’ll give her that.