Page 72 of Saltwater Cowboy

Not in a way that didn’t feel like an obligation.

I shook the thought away, setting my water bottle down before easing onto my back. My feet throbbed, but at least tomorrow wouldn’t involve stuffing them back into those godforsaken boots.

Flower fields.

I didn’t even know what that meant.

Do we just wander through them? Pick flowers like some kind of romance movie montage? It had to be easier than the fresh hell he had me doing today.

I yawned, the exhaustion of the day finally hitting me. The rain outside had picked up, steady and rhythmic against the roof, lulling me into something close to comfort.

Maybe this place wasn’t as awful as I kept telling myself.

Maybe Wells Calloway wasn’t either.

That was the last thought I had before sleep took me under.

I woke up slowly, warmth pressing into my sheets, the faintest hint of honeysuckle in the air. It was the kind of morning I would have killed for back in the city—quiet, unrushed, without the blaring sounds of car horns or sirens.

I stretched, only to groan when my feet protested the movement.

I turned onto my side, checking my phone. Wells hadn’t come banging on my door at dawn, so I supposed he was serious about letting me sleep in.

I was debating whether I could get away with staying in bed a little longer when there was a light knock at the door.

“Come in.” I called, my voice still thick with sleep.

The door cracked open, and Wells peered in, brows raised. “You’re awake. Thought I might have to come in here and roll you out of bed.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

He grinned but didn’t take the bait. Instead, he nodded toward the hallway. “Breakfast is ready. Figured you might want to eat before we head outside.”

I blinked. “You made breakfast?”

“Don’t look so surprised,” he said, smirking. “I’m full of hidden talents.”

I snorted. “Right. Like your charm and impeccable manners.”

“Exactly.” He winked. “Now get your ass downstairs before I change my mind and make you put the boots back on.”

I grumbled under my breath but swung my legs over the edge of the bed, wincing as my feet hit the floor.

Wells was already halfway down the hall, but I swore I saw him pause—like he was listening, making sure I wasn’t in too much pain.

Maybe I was imagining it.

Regardless, I grabbed my water bottle and hobbled downstairs, following the smell of coffee and something warm and buttery. My stomach rumbled.

When I reached the kitchen, Wells was at the stove, flipping something in a cast iron skillet. The sight was almost unsettling—big, broad cowboy manning a stove like he did it every day.

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes scanning me like he was assessing whether I was about to collapse. I straightened, trying to look less like someone who needed help.

“Thought you might’ve changed your mind about letting me sleep in,” I said, lowering myself into a chair at the kitchen table in front of a steaming cup of fresh-brewed coffee.

Wells smirked. “Figured if I let you sleep, you might complain less today.”

I rolled my eyes and a smile played on my lips. “Doubtful.”