Slow Burn Cowboy(20)

“I have a morning routine, dammit,” Finn said, taking another sip of coffee and burning himself all over again.

“Yeah,” Alex said, “this is better.”

“How?”

“She’s way better looking than you, for starters.”

Lane smiled. “Thank you, Alex. It’s nice to know that I’m appreciated. At least by somebody.”

“I appreciate you,” Finn said. “But I think it’s weird that you let yourself into my house to deliver food. And now you’re cooking.”

“First of all, Alex let me in. Second of all, it’s awfully convenient that you want food from me on your terms, but when I bring it to you without being asked it’s suddenly a problem?”

Liam and Alex exchanged glances. “I don’t think you’re going to win this one,” Alex said. “I would turn back if I were you. And anyway—” he stood up off of the stool “—we have work to do.” He winked at Lane. “See you later.” He and Liam stood and made their way out of the room.

Cain finished eating, and he didn’t seem to notice the fact that Finn was mentally boring holes through the side of his head. Or maybe he did, and he just didn’t care, because raising a teenager meant that he was immune to any and all kinds of dirty looks.

“Thank you again,” Cain said, standing up and tipping his hat. All that was missing was the ma’am.

Obnoxious Texan bastard.

Then it was his turn to walk out.

“I didn’t realize you were so grouchy in the morning,” Lane said, snatching up the dirty plates that were sitting on the counter.

“Possibly because you don’t usually see me in the morning. Because you don’t usually invade my house.”

“Why is it a problem?” She dumped the plates into the sink with no finesse, the ceramic dishes clattering against each other. If they didn’t chip, he would be surprised.

“I...” He honestly didn’t know. Except that he was still wound up from yesterday, and it all centered on her. Well, and his brothers. The fact that he felt like his entire house had been commandeered. That nothing was his anymore.

Broken down like that, it made him feel a little less crazy.

“You’re mean?” She set about washing the dishes, her movements ferocious.

“Don’t wash those,” he said.

“Why not?” She threw her sponge down into the sink and it must have knocked one glass down into another, because there was a loud, dangerous-sounding noise. “I made the mess—it seems like I should clean it up.”

“First of all, I would rather you didn’t do my dishes because it sounds like you’re going to break them. Second of all, you made breakfast—you’re not cleaning up.”

“An unappreciated breakfast,” she said, sniffing loudly.

He sighed, grabbing the back of his neck and rubbing it. “I’m tired. I’m still getting used to all of them being in my house, and I did not expect to walk in and see you too.”

She frowned. “When did I become a problem? When did I become another person who was invading your space?”

He wanted badly to tell her that she wasn’t. Except the feeling persisted. That she was just another thing that felt too difficult to handle right now. But he wasn’t going to say that. Because introducing the subject was even more impossible than just having her here.

“It’s me,” he said, gritting his teeth. “It’s not you.”

She snorted. “Now it just sounds like we’re having a bad breakup.”

“We aren’t,” he said, his tone harder than he intended. “It’s not like that. Friends don’t break up.”

That was the bottom line. Friends didn’t break up. And she was a friend. It was one of the biggest reasons she had always been a friend, and nothing more. Why he had never, ever made a move on her. Not just out of his loyalty to her brother, Mark, but also because he valued the connection between them.

Yeah, he wanted her. But there were a lot of women to want. A lot of women to have for temporary moments in time.

There was only one Lane.

He repeated that over and over in his mind while he continued to look at her. She was hurt—he could see that, her dark eyes looking a little too bright in the dim morning light.

“Good,” she said. “Because you can’t.”

“I can’t what?”

“Break up with me,” she said, a thread of genuine emotion winding around the teasing note in her voice. “I mean, I know how to get into your house. You would never be able to get rid of me. It would make things really uncomfortable. You would be like, ‘Lane, I’m not speaking to you, why are you in my house?’ And I would be like, ‘you’re doing a really bad job of not speaking to me, since you’re speaking to me.’”

“That’s what it would be like?”

“Yes. So, you can see that it’s silly.”

“Definitely. You have nothing to worry about. I have no desire to break up with you.” Using those words to talk about the two of them was weird.

“Good,” she said.

She shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, looking around, the air once again thick between them. He had thought that maybe it was just him. Until yesterday. And that made him mad all over again. It was one thing to feel attracted to her knowing that she was completely oblivious.

It was another when he had a feeling she sensed the tension.

“I have to go,” he said, using the cows as a convenient excuse.

“Okay,” she said. “I’m going to clean.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

“And I don’t care. I have a while until I have to go open the store. Just let me help.” She reached out, like she was going to put her hand on him, and he took a step back. She stared at him, and then lowered her hand back down to her side.

“See you later,” he said.

“See you.”





CHAPTER TEN

THE MORNING HAD started tense, and she was still annoyed about it. The day was not getting along any better. First, a shipment of jam that had come in from a little farm down the coast had arrived with two broken jars that had left everything a sticky mess.

The deliveryman—the son of the woman who made the jam—was apologetic. But that still saw her wiping jam off each individual jar in the boxes.

Though, things didn’t start getting really terrible until later that afternoon when a group of giggling women walked into the store holding smartphones.

Lane couldn’t make out words so much as indistinct squeals. “He’s holding baby ferrets,” one of the women said. “I can’t handle it. And then—”

Lane didn’t get to hear the rest of the and then. Mostly because it was overshadowed by more laughter.

“Hi,” Lane said, doing her best to keep her tone bright. “Are you ladies having a good day?”

“Great,” one of them said, adjusting a flimsy infinity scarf. “We’re on a wine tour.”

Well, that explained the squealing. “How fun. I hope someone else is driving.”

“Yes,” another woman, a blonde, told her. “We have a tour bus.”

“Very nice.”

“We just came from Grassroots. What a beautiful place. Set right into the woods, with a lovely private dining space by the river. The view is lovely. And there was an actual rodeo cowboy there. He was a nicer view than the ocean.”

Lane wondered if that meant that Dane Parker was back from the Pro-Rodeo circuit. He was definitely the kind of man that caused a county-wide hot flash with his mere presence. Assuming tall, cocky and cowboy was your type.

He was essentially a local celebrity, even though he was from Gold Valley. But when it came to rural areas like this, being from a neighboring town meant every other community in the vicinity claimed you as their own.

“I do like a view with my drinking,” Lane said, smiling even more broadly.

“Oh,” the woman in the scarf said, “as sexy as he was, he doesn’t have anything on that new senator.”

Lane just about gagged.

And when she found a phone being shoved in her face, a video already playing, she was pretty sure she did. Because there he was, wearing a suit and a red power tie, clutching an armful of ferrets like a little furry bouquet.

What the actual fuck was a politician doing with an armful of ferrets? More important, why did this man insist on being both across the country and in her face constantly?

“It’s at the zoo in DC,” the blonde said. “It’s a whole montage of him holding baby animals while he hears about the various breeding programs. He is just such a nice man. And handsome. Not just for a politician either.”

Suddenly, the woman lowered the phone, and Lane knew she must be registering her disgust in her facial expression. Except, she was still smiling. She realized when she tried to widen it, that her mouth was stretched as far as it could go. But she had a feeling there was a murderous light in her eye. She must look terrifying.

Yet she had no idea how to fix it.

“Are you not a fan?” the phone woman asked.

“I’m a Quaker,” she lied. “I don’t engage in politics. I conscientiously object.”

She had no idea if Quakers voted or not, or if she was remembering that wrong. However, she could see that the slightly tipsy women didn’t know either. In spite of her near apoplexy—or maybe because of it—they ended up buying several packages of crackers and a pound of Laughing Irish cheese.