Page 21 of Cowboy Elite 2: Mike

"You gave me a name." His voice was steady. Calm. "Maybe not the one on your birth certificate, but it's the one you're using. That's enough for now."

She stared at the floor. "I didn't lie to cause harm. I just... needed space to breathe."

"Then breathe." He pushed off the shelf. Crossed the small space between them. "You don't owe me anything you're not ready to give."

She wanted to tell him everything. The blood on the marble. The man in the tux. The detective who told her to run.

But the words stuck.

"I'm not dangerous." She’d said those words to him before, felt the need to repeat herself.

Mike's arms came around her, slow and careful, like he was giving her time to pull away. "I know."

"How?"

"Because dangerous people don't bake biscuits at five a.m. and get misty when a six-year-old says their tongue feels betrayed."

A laugh bubbled up, wet and shaky. "I didn't cry."

"You got misty. I saw it."

"That was the cayenne."

"Sure it was."

She leaned into him then, let herself be held, let the warmth of his body chase away the cold. Her breasts were cushioned against the solid, muscled breadth of his chest. She slid her arms fully around his waist, let herself luxuriate in the sensual press of their bodies.

The fridge stayed cold. Nothing else moved. Their bodies pressed together, seeking and offering warmth and something else neither of them was ready to name.

A few minutes later, the door opened.

Joe stood there, toolbox in hand, one brow raised at the sight of them wrapped around each other.

"Sorry, bro. Should've fixed this last week." He stepped back. "You two good?"

Mike released Liv but kept a hand on her shoulder. "A little cold. And a little pissed about the lack of maintenance."

"Got you. Won't happen again. I'll fix it right now."

Liv scooted past them both, still wrapped in Mike's flannel, and disappeared through the kitchen toward the staircase.

Joe waited until her footsteps faded. Then he looked at Mike. "You gonna tell me what that was about?"

"Nope."

"She tell you her real name yet?"

Mike's head snapped up. "What?"

Joe leaned against the doorframe, casual as Sunday. "Liv Ramsey doesn't exist. Not on social media. Not in any culinary database I could find. No restaurant reviews, no press, nothing." He paused. "Which means either she's a ghost, or she's hiding."

Mike's jaw tightened. "You ran a background check on her?"

"Didn't have to. I Googled her name after the biscuit bake-off and came up empty. That's weird, Mike. Especially for someone who supposedly owned a bakery in Manhattan."

"She's got her reasons."

"I'm sure she does." Joe's voice softened. "But if trouble follows her here?—"