A Little Night Muse(20)

                But his every nerve was fine tuned to the cabin. While brushing                     Bunco’s tail, he wanted to run his fingers through Adelyn’s dark locks. Would                     her hair be as silky as it looked? His fingers caught in a knot, and the tail                     twitched out of his grasp.

                “Sorry, sorry. I wasn’t watching.” Wasn’t thinking right,                     either, if he really imagined his gorgeous guest wanted his rough hands on                     her.

                Finally he made his way to the house, only somewhat dragging                     his boot heels. When he had left this morning, the cabin had seemed right fine.                     The rambling homestead edged with ferns bravely curling out of the snow wasn’t                     as grand as the Hunters’ house, but the view it faced was every bit as pretty,                     especially with the prime Angus making bold black dots against the white                     field.

                But compared to the woman inside, now the silvered cedar logs                     and slightly warped roofline seemed homely instead of just homey.

                His jaw tightened. This wasn’t Hollywood-style,                     computer-generated fakery. This was a real working ranch. And he was a real                     working rancher. And neither were without their scars.

                He touched his cheekbone though he couldn’t feel the old cut                     through his calluses. Danielle had once said his partly blinded eye made him                     look broken-bottle mean. In reality, he’d been working with sheet metal—no, not                     working, playing—and the edge had slashed him.

                Now he had a living, breathing piece of art in his bathroom. He                     rather suspected she had more sharp edges than she’d shown him yet.

                Danielle had always wanted a second bath. That seemed silly to                     him—who was going to use it?—but now he wished Adelyn wasn’t standing in arms                     reach of his personal towel, wrapping her fingers around his soap, which was                     only boring man soap since Danielle left.

                And the only reason he was thinking of his ex was because he                     was ticking off on his fingers how many months had passed since he’d fallen into                     bed with someone other than himself.

                At the front door, he braced his hand on the coat hanger made                     out of an old horseshoe and kicked off his boots—he’d need his bare toes to                     complete his calculations—as if he could kick the wistful wishes out of his                     head.