Page 20 of The Rancher’s Bride

“Are you still on that?”

“I like shoulder rubs.”

“You’ve never had one from me.”

“I might like yours.”

“Unbelievable.”

“And compliments.”

“You have enough confidence.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear how good I look.”

She gives me a slow once-over that sends heat straight through me. “I already told you that.”

“Tell me again.”

“No.”

“Sabrina.”

Her gaze drops to my mouth. Mine drops to hers. For a second, I think she’s going to let me kiss her again.

But then she says, “We should go back to bed.”

“Together?”

“To our own beds.”

She steps around me, knocks back her drink, and walks out of the kitchen. I watch her bare legs all the way to the stairs. Then I pour myself a shot and swallow it in one burn. It doesn’t help a damn bit.

5

SABRINA

Over the next couple of weeks, Damian makes what actually seems like a genuine effort to convince me I didn’t make a huge mistake coming here.

He buys me a pair of work gloves that fit my hands better than the oversized pair of his I’d been borrowing. He finally learns how I take my coffee, though not without giving me grief about how much cream I use. He notices me rubbing my temples after dinner one evening and quietly sets aspirin and a glass of water beside my plate, then casually asks a couple of hours later if the aspirin helped.

One afternoon I discover he’s replaced the old bath towels with thick, fluffy new ones. Two days later, I step into the hallway wrapped in one of them and nearly walk straight into him. He mutters something under his breath and disappears outside before I can stop blushing.

Then he comes home from the grocery store with a fresh bouquet of flowers. The old bouquet quietly disappears, replaced by a bunch of daisies and pink carnations arranged in the same pickle jar on the kitchen table.

I make an effort, too. I mend his favorite work shirt before the tear gets any worse. I bake a pecan pie and pretend not to be pleased when he reaches for a second slice. When he’s been outside working in the heat for too long, I carry him a cold glass of lemonade. He’s shirtless and sun-bronzed. He catches me staring, and the smug grin that follows makes me want to throw the lemonade at him almost as much as I want to kiss him.

We still argue. Constantly. About ranch work. About chores. About who forgot to latch a gate or whether there are right and wrong ways to fold towels.

Somehow, though, it starts feeling less like a sign that this marriage is doomed and more like…us.

Day twenty-two begins with Damian telling me I’m holding the rope wrong.

“I’m holding it exactly the way you showed me,” I say, keeping both hands around the thick line as I follow him across the pasture.

“No, you’re holding it the way you decided was better five minutes after I showed you.”

“Because your way was uncomfortable.”