Page 16 of The Rancher’s Bride

I stare at the buckets. There are too many damn choices. Yellow, red, pink, white. Some big, some small. Most of them look exactly the same to me.

“What kind do you like?” I ask.

She looks at me, then at the flowers. “You’re asking me?”

“No, I’m asking the old lady by the freezer.”

Sabrina presses her lips together. “I’m not picky.”

“That’s not an answer. You’ve got to like one more than the others.”

“They’re all pretty.”

I reach for a bunch with white and yellow flowers because they look less likely to mean something I don’t understand. “These?”

Her expression warms. “Those are nice.”

“Nice?”

“They’re beautiful.”

I put them in the cart before I can change my mind.

The flowers sit between us on the drive home, wrapped in plastic and taking up more space than it feels like they should. I keep waiting for Sabrina to say something about it. She doesn’t. When we reach the house, she just carries the flowers inside while I unload the groceries. I come into the kitchen and she’s washing out an empty pickle jar.

“Was I supposed to buy a vase?” I ask.

“No,” she says lightly. “This’ll work just fine.”

I watch her trim the stems with one of my knives, arrange the flowers in the jar, and set it in the middle of the dining table. Like that, the whole room looks different. Sabrina adjusts one of the stems, then looks at me over the top of them.

Our eyes meet. I feel the moment hit deep in my chest. She knows why I bought them. I know she knows. For once, there isn’t a smart-ass comment between us to make it easier.

She looks away first and starts putting groceries into the refrigerator. “I’ll make the stew tonight.”

“Hope it’s worth all that celery.”

She laughs. “I think you can handle a few extra vegetables, Damian.”

The sound of her laughter lingers in my chest longer than it should. I grab my hat and head outside. There’s plenty of work to keep me busy. I stay out until the sun is dropping and my shirt is stuck to my back.

The second I come back to the house and open the door, the smell hits me. Beef. Bread. Garlic.

Sabrina is standing at the stove, stirring a pot. She looks over her shoulder. “You’re filthy.”

“I’ve been working.”

“So have I, and I don’t have mud on my face.”

“I can fix that.”

Her eyes widen, then narrow. “Don’t even think about it.”

I look into the pot. “Smells good.”

“It is good.”

“You sound sure.”