Page 30 of Cowboy Elite 2: Mike

The back door creaked.

She didn't tense. Didn't reach for a knife or spin around wild-eyed like she'd done her first week here.

She smiled.

"Figured I'd find you in here," Mike said, his voice rough with sleep.

She turned. His hair was still damp, pushed back from his face, and his Henley looked like he'd yanked it on in the dark. His forearms were strong and leanly muscled, like the rest of him. He held two mugs of coffee, one already half-empty.

"You bribing me?" she asked, eyeing the mug rather than his body. This man spelled trouble and she certainly didn’t need any more of that in her life.

"Always." He held it out. "I'm a provider of caffeine and questionable flattery. It's my brand."

She took the cup, sipped, and closed her eyes. "Perfect. Strong enough to wake the dead."

"That's the Watkins family recipe. We don't believe in weak coffee or weak convictions."

"Good to know." She set the mug down and went back to stirring.

"What's the plan today, Cookie?"

"Sticky buns this morning. Cobbler for tonight. You've got peaches, real peaches,” she stressed. And they're almost overripe. They'll bruise just looking at them, but if I coax the sugar right, they'll melt like butter."

He whistled low. "No wonder the boys keep volunteering for dish duty."

Liv arched an eyebrow. "Let's see where that talk gets you after I burn a pan."

“Can’t imagine that happens often.” Mike stepped closer, setting his mug down as he surveyed her work. "Dough looks perfect."

She grinned, ridiculously pleased. "Thanks."

"I mean, it's no pre-mix from a grocery bag, but it'll do," he added.

She rolled her eyes. "You really can't help yourself."

"You love it."

He was close now, close enough that she could smell the faint scent of fabric softener on his shirt. And beneath it, something distinctly him, cedar soap and that easy confidence that seemed to roll off him like heat.

They fell into rhythm easily, working around each other like a dance they didn't have to think about. Mike chopped pecans while Liv rolled out dough, their hands moving in tandem, stealing glances, sharing smiles.

This. This she could get used to.

"Do you ever miss it?" she asked suddenly, not looking up.

His chopping paused.

"Miss what?"

"Medicine. The work. The adrenaline."

Mike set the knife down. Stared at the pecans like they held answers.

"I lost someone." His voice went quiet. Careful. "First tour. Fellow medic. Charlie." He paused. "We were both twenty-four. He was. . ." Mike shook his head, almost smiled. "He was cocky. Used to mix Gatorade powder into Folgers when we ran out of sugar. Called it combat cappuccino."

Liv didn't move.

"It was disgusting," Mike said. "But he was fast. Saved a kid once with a pen and a shoelace." His jaw worked. "During a night raid, someone screamed. Charlie ran toward the gunfire."