Page 11 of Oops I Fell For The Cowboy Next Door

"Because then you'd expect it."

"Would that be so terrible?"

Yes. Because expectations mean staying. Expectations mean someone counting on me for something beyond cattle and fence wire. Expectations mean the kitchen table with two chairs instead of one, and I've been sitting at one for so long that the idea of two makes my throat tight.

She reads all of it on my face. I can see her doing it, tracking the shift, filing it away. Her expression changes. The teasing drops. Something softer takes its place.

"Tate."

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

Like you see something worth staying for. Like the silence doesn't scare you. Like you'd put your feet in my creek every damn day if I asked.

I don't say any of that. I push off the counter where I've been standing and walk toward the door because distance is the only language I trust. But the kitchen is small, and she's between me and the exit, still leaning against the sink.

We end up face to face. Close. Too close. Her chin tips up. Those blue eyes lock onto mine, steady, unblinking. Her lips part on a soft breath that I can feel against my jaw.

My hand moves before my brain gives permission. Fingers curling around the back of her neck, thumb resting at the hinge of her jaw. Her pulse hammers under my palm. Fast. Scared fast, or wanting fast, and knowing the difference matters.

"This is a bad idea." My voice is rough. Barely mine.

"Probably." She doesn't step back.

"You're my neighbor."

"I'm aware."

"I'm difficult."

"I noticed."

"Piper." Her name scrapes out of me. "I haven't kissed anyone in three years."

"Then you should probably stop talking about it and just do it."

Something breaks. The last thin wire of restraint I've been stringing between fence posts since the day she showed up in her yard with bare feet and a mouth that won't quit.

I kiss her.

My mouth covers hers, firm, hungry. Her hands grab fistfuls of my shirt, pulling me closer. She tastes like milk and bad coffee and something sweeter underneath, something warm that goes straight through me. Her back hits the counter edge. My free hand grips the butcher block beside her hip, caging her in without meaning to. She doesn't seem to mind. Her fingers slide up from my shirt to my jaw, rough against my stubble, holding me against her mouth.

I kiss her deeper. Tongue against hers, slow, deliberate. Testing. She makes a sound in her throat. Quiet, breathless, involuntary. My hand tightens on her neck. My hips press forward against hers until the counter is the only thing keeping us upright.

One kiss. That's all this was supposed to be. A lapse in judgment at six forty-five in the morning in my kitchen where nobody has touched me in three years.

But her mouth opens under mine, and her fingers curl into my hair under the brim of my hat, knocking it off, and the sound it makes hitting the floor is the loudest thing in the room. And I can't stop. Don't want to. My thumb traces her jaw. My teeth catch her bottom lip. She arches into me with a gasp that vibrates against my chest.

I pull back. Forehead against hers. Breathing hard. Both of us. Her hands still in my hair. My hand still on her neck.

"Okay," she whispers. "That was..."

"Yeah."