Page 73 of Saltwater Cowboy

He chuckled, turning back to the stove. A few seconds later, he slid a plate in front of me—scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and what looked like a homemade biscuit.

I eyed it suspiciously. “You made this?”

“Nah,” he deadpanned. “The breakfast fairy stopped by.”

I bit back a smile and picked up my fork. The first bite of biscuit was warm and buttery, practically melting in my mouth. I hated to admit it, but it was good. Like, really good.

Wells sat across from me with his own plate, taking a bite of bacon. “How’s it feel to be boot-free today?”

I exhaled dramatically. “Like I’ve been released from a medieval torture device.”

“You’re welcome.”

I scoffed. “For what?”

“Giving your feet a break,” he said like it was obvious.

I took a sip of coffee, leveling him with a look. “You’re acting like you gave me the day off.”

He smirked. “Not a day off. Just an easier day.”

I should’ve known there was a catch. “What exactly are we doing in the flower fields?”

“Planting, pruning, maybe harvesting, depending on what’s ready. It’s easier than yesterday. Less running from garden snakes.” Wells paused, “Maybe.”

I stabbed a piece of egg with my fork. “I didn’t run.”

Wells tilted his head. “You screamed like someone was trying to murder you.”

“That was a natural reaction.”

“Uh-huh.” He took another bite of bacon. “Hope you’ve got a decent sunscreen. You’re gonna fry out there. The sun is hot today.”

I scowled. “I have sunscreen, Wells. I wasn’t raised in a cave.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

I huffed, stuffing a bite of eggs into my mouth instead of responding. I wasn’t minding the banter.

The worst part?

I was starting to not mind Wells, either.

After breakfast, I took my time getting ready, partly because my feet still ached and partly because I was mentally preparing for whatever “easier day” Wells had planned.

Flower fields sounded nice in theory, but knowing him, there would be some kind of catch.

I slipped into shorts and a tank top, the light fabric a welcome relief after yesterday’s disaster of an outfit. No boots, no jeans—just my perfectly worn in flip-flops. If Wells had a problem with it, he could take it up with the fact that I was technically injured.

By the time I stepped outside, the sun was already high, draping the land in a golden glow. Wells stood beside some kind of four-wheeled contraption, arms crossed, watching me like he was waiting for a complaint.

I refused to give him the satisfaction.

“Flower fields, huh?” I said as I approached. “Sounds like something out of a romance novel.”

“Don’t go getting any ideas,” he drawled, swinging onto the seat with effortless ease. Then, he extended a hand.

I hesitated only a second before taking it, ignoring the way my stomach flipped at the small gesture. Settling into the seat behind him, I adjusted my shorts and scoffed.