Page 37 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

She smiles through the threat of tears, and that right there nearly finishes me.

Because it’s the bravest thing I’ve seen all day, that little smile while hurting.

I set my plate down on the floor and stand before I think too hard about it. Cross to the bed to sit beside her. Close enough that if she wants comfort, she won’t have to reach far.

She watches me come, eyes wide and wary and more underneath.

“Duke…”

“You don’t have to say anything else,” I tell her. “You can just sit here a minute.”

She swallows. Nods once.

We do.

The record crackles softly through the next song. A slow one. Of course.

Somewhere downstairs a door shuts, footsteps pass, life keeps happening beyond this room.

But in here, it feels suspended.

Her shoulder is maybe two inches from mine. Her perfume… vanilla, rain, coffee gone cold. Every instinct in me wants to close the distance.

Every instinct in her body seems to mirror that tension, subtle and fragile, as if the room itself is holding its breath.

I should probably move. But I don’t.

Instead, because apparently I’m a fool, I say, “I’ve been trying not to think about kissing you since Tuesday.”

She turns so fast the blanket slips from one shoulder. “What?”

I could laugh it off, turn it into a joke. Pretend I didn’t just throw a lit match into dry grass.

I don’t.

“I said,” I answer, “I’ve been trying not to think about kissing you since Tuesday.”

Her lips part.

“Why Tuesday?” she asks, and help me, she sounds breathless.

“Because Monday you were new and I was being respectful. Tuesday you looked at me in the kitchen like you were trying to decide if I was trouble, and I’ve been doomed ever since.”

A flush rises under her freckles. She doesn’t pull away.

I can feel my pulse in my hands.

“This is a bad idea,” she whispers.

“Probably.”

“You’re my boss.”

“One of them.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“I know.”