Page 65 of The Cowboy Who Stayed

“Vivica, turn the damn faucet on.”

I snicker at his authoritative tone and do as he says. Admittedly, I always assumed younger men could never handle me. I’ve always preferred older for that reason.

But Rhett Dawson has proven age really is just a number.

The twenty-six-year-old is assertive and masculine and knows exactly how to strike a balance between respecting my agency and taking control when necessary.

The faucet sputters in and out a few times before the real flow returns. The water streams from the faucet as steady, clean, and clear as desired.

Rhett slides out from under the sink with a lopsided grin plastered on his face. He couldn’t be more pleased with himself, which only makes me laugh harder.

His T-shirt’s soaked through, clinging to his delicious six-pack abs and sculpted pecs, and he has a smudge of dirt on his cheek from tinkering around under the sink.

But he’s done it; he’s officially fixed the sink.

“Told you I had it,” he says.

“After three failed attempts and a YouTube video.”

“The YouTube video was supplementary. I mostly knew what I was doing.”

I gesture to the puddles on the floor. “You mostly flooded my kitchen.”

He dusts off his hands, casting a flippant glance at the mess. “Minor casualties. The mission was accomplished, and that’s what counts.”

“You’ve got water all over you,” I point out.

“So do you, doc.” He nods toward the front of my shirt where the earlier spray caught me across the chest. His eyes linger there with zero subtlety, a spark of desire in the hazel hue.

My cheeks flush. “How about we clean up before we get distracted?”

We tackle the floor as a joint effort, grabbing the mop and bucket to wipe up the mess. Then we’re making our way to the bathroom upstairs, peeling off wet clothes and twisting on the shower.

Thankfully it fits two.

We step in together, the steam rising around us as the water sluices over our skin.

There’s no rush to it. No urgency about the moment.

Just his hands moving soap along my shoulders and my fingers slicking his hair back from his brow.

We laugh as soap winds up on my chin and then again when we’re maneuvering around and I accidentally elbow him in the ribs.

He kisses the curve of my neck and I lean into him, and we stay under the water longer than necessary. Neither of us want to move, our skin turning pruny.

Eventually we do turn off the water and grab our towels to dry off.

I’m so at ease, the recent issues that came up feel distant. It feels like problems a different Vivica Murphy faced altogether.

Though I didn’t know it at the time, this is what I was driving toward when I left Texas. More than simple freedom from Craig and the old life I had. I was driving toward a level of contentment I’ve never truly had before.

Simple Saturday afternoons with a sexy cowboy twenty years younger who couldn’t make me happier.

After the shower, we return to the kitchen. This time to cook dinner as a couple.

Rhett’s volunteered to handle the protein—grilled chicken with some seasoning blend he swears he learned from Miss Bee—while I work on roasted vegetables and a salad.

We move around my small kitchen as if we’ve coordinated a dance routine. He goes left and I go right, and we demonstrate once again how easily we read each other.