Page 42 of Cowboy Mountain Man

That’s considerably harder to joke about.

I’ve spent most of today needing him. Needing his steady voice, his hands, his absolute confidence that he can get us through this. I haven’t let myself ask what happens when I don’t need protecting anymore.

Apparently, he has.

“I like having you in my house,” he says.

“Even with the home invasion?”

“I could’ve done without that part.”

I smile. “I liked your house.”

“So you said.”

“I liked you in it.”

His hand stills against my cheek. Then he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’ve got three more days on the inventory?”

“If the house stops actively discouraging me.”

“And then?”

I shrug a little. “Another job. Somewhere else.”

“No one waiting?”

“My sister. A landlord with a very personal interest in my finances.”

He looks toward the ceiling. Then back at me. “I want more than three days.”

My chest tightens. “How much more?”

“I don’t know yet.”

I believe that answer. Maybe more than I would believe a bigger one.

His hand moves slowly down my back. “I want breakfast with you when nobody’s trying to steal your camera. I want to take you riding when you aren’t afraid. I want you in my kitchen complaining about my coffee.”

“Is your coffee bad?”

“You’ll have opinions.”

“I usually do.”

“I noticed.”

I rest my chin on his chest. Breakfast. A ride through the woods without somebody following us. His kitchen on an ordinary morning. I can picture all of it much too easily. “You want me to stay.”

“Yes.”

“For reasons that have nothing to do with keeping me safe.”

His gaze holds mine. “Yes.”

My eyes sting. I blink before that can become an issue. “I’m not very good at being told what to do.”

“I noticed that, too.”