Chapter One
“Love is precious, love is kind. But love can kick you in the behind.”
—Blu Johnson, life lesson #27
It had been forty-two days since Waylon Peterson moved to Red Oak Falls, and Heather Lindsay still hadn’t met the man. And she was quite proud of that fact.
She hadn’t been to the Buffalo Nickel—where he was apparently a weeknight regular. She hadn’t run into him at the ranch—even though she’d had to be out here several times in preparation for her friend Jill’s wedding. And she hadn’t so much as glanced around, hoping to catch sight of him while driving through town—even though the man was supposedly a dead ringer for Prince Harry. Which was exactly her type.
Nope. She’d been a bona fide Girl Scout when it came to avoiding the subject of the town’s buzzing rumor mill. Just as she’d promised her other friend Trenton she would be. But she feared her time of compliance would soon be coming to an end.
“More brisket?”
A tray of prime grilled beef appeared under Heather’s nose, and she closed her eyes and allowed herself one deep breath of the mouthwatering smell—and one tiny vision of helping herself to seconds. Then she popped open her eyes and shot their head foreman a droll look. “Really, Pete?” She pushed the platter away. “You know I have to be in a bridesmaid dress in seven weeks.”
And she knew any extra calories would land squarely on her hips.
Pete waggled his brows and inched the platter closer. “Not even for a special day?” he taunted.
Heather narrowed her eyes at him. “No day is special enough for yet another yoga session.” Some days she truly hated yoga. “Neither is your brisket. So, run along, evil man, and find another unsuspecting soul to fork calories into.”
Pete chuckled and moved on. It was Labor Day, and though Pete had been manning the smoker since it had been fired up, the group of construction workers, friends, and family were actually at Cal and Jill’s ranch. The couple had invited everyone over for a cookout, but more importantly, they’d invited the group to preview the extended-length trailer of the upcoming Texas Dream Home special.
Back in the spring, the popular home renovation show had chosen two companies from Red Oak Falls to compete against each other, and the entire town had immediately climbed on board. They’d cheered passionately, either rooting for Cal’s team—a company previously known as We Nail It Contractors—or Heather, Jill, and Trenton’s—Bluebonnet Construction. It had been a men vs. women showdown, and though arguments still occasionally erupted over whether the correct team had been declared the winner, the girls had graciously accepted defeat. Only, with their defeat, an opportunity had presented itself.
To be fair, the opportunity had been for Jill and Cal alone. Due to their contentious past, the two of them had sparked on-screen from day one, and the executive producer had jumped on their chemistry. He’d offered them their own show. However, there had been one small catch. The two companies would have to merge to make the new show work. The producer had wanted two hosts but only one company. Therefore, after wading through the hows and who-would-do-whats between all parties involved, Bluebonnet Construction and We Nail It Contractors had officially become known as Bluebonnets Nail It.
Heather almost laughed out loud at the thought. She still couldn’t believe she’d agreed to the name. But at the same time, she could admit that it was catchy. And people had been eating it up. Business was booming.
“Who’s up for cake?”
Heather audibly groaned as Blu Johnson appeared at the back door carrying her life-altering orange chiffon layer cake. Aunt Blu was foster mother to Heather, Jill, and Trenton—as well as to many other girls over the years—and her cake happened to be Heather’s favorite dessert of all time. But favorite dessert or not, she hadn’t been joking with Pete earlier. At five feet two, and with her late mother’s curves, it wasn’t easy keeping in shape.
“I’m in,” Trenton piped up from the other side of the covered patio. She rose from the rocker where she’d been slouched. “I never miss cake.”
Trenton never missed any food. And it never showed.
“Have a piece for me, will you?” Disgust dripped heavy from Heather’s voice. Life could be utterly unfair when it came to body types and metabolism, but she wasn’t about to give in now. If she could go six weeks without doing anything stupid to get the attention of the man who, according to every single female in town, was “the hottest male to ever grace the streets of Red Oak Falls,” then she could avoid a slab of heaven on a plate.
As Trenton and the others made their way over to where Aunt Blu was now serving up healthy slices of the decadent dessert, Heather looked beyond the patio to the horse barn that had been built over the summer. As part of the new show, Cal planned to turn the ranch into a working cattle farm, and one vital piece of a working ranch was having a ranch manager who oversaw daily operations.
Enter Waylon Peterson. Otherwise known as Red Oak Falls’ latest heartthrob . . . a.k.a. the man of many rumors. A.k.a. the last man she needed to fall for.
And if he really did look like Prince Harry? Then yeah. Like an anchor being chucked into the ocean, she’d fall. Fast. And land flat on her face. Because that’s how it went for her. Three devastating heartbreaks behind her, and her radar still pinged only for the wrong guys.
She jerked her gaze off the barn, chastising herself for even letting the man enter her mind. He wasn’t out there right now, anyway. He might live in the small apartment that had been built inside the barn, but he never stayed in Red Oak Falls over the weekends—and he apparently didn’t loiter during holidays, either.
Must be nice, taking a job and being able to get away with such demands.
She frowned at the voice inside her head. It was none of her business what the man did with his weekends—or why he’d had it written into his contract that he would take every one of them off. Enough people speculated about that as it was. She didn’t need to add to it.
“Start up the preview, Cal.” The request came from one of the men who’d originally worked for Cal. “You’ve kept us waiting long enough.”
A round of agreement followed.
“I suppose that is why we’re all here today.”
Cal moved to the custom-built fireplace with the mounted outdoor TV and held out a hand for Jill to join him, and as Cal’s hand wrapped around her friend’s, Heather’s heart smiled.
“Jill and I want to thank you all for coming out today,” Cal began. He talked for a minute about the pride they both felt at being asked to participate in the new show, as well as what it meant to have worked so hard with everyone in the original competition. He then invited each person there today to come back for the wedding.
“We’ll be here,” someone yelled out, “but only if there will be more of this cake.”
Another voice seconded the suggestion, and laughter filtered through the crowd. Cal pointed a remote at the oversized television before he pulled Jill down beside him on the wicker sectional, and all talking ceased.
Everyone watched in silence as the voice-over set up the rivalry of the competition. Pictures of Cal and Pete, as well as Heather, Jill, and Trenton, were flashed on-screen and the group of onlookers cheered as each “player” was introduced. The two houses to be renovated were showcased next, followed by shots highlighting the beauty of the hill country. The sneak peek then shifted and became more about Cal and Jill. After showing a couple of heated glances the two had exchanged during filming—along with a handful of shared death glares—the trailer cut to a moment inside the house the girls had been renovating. It was the day they’d first been explaining to Jill the reality of her and Cal getting within twenty feet of each other . . . and how if they did, the two of them would likely go off like a rocket.
“I don’t want to be combustible!” Jill shouted on-screen. She’d been standing in the middle of the bare-bones living room, shouting up at Trenton, who’d been perched in the rafters.
Heather smiled at the memory.
“But our wants and our actions don’t always make complete sense, do they?” The response came from Trenton.
“I will not be acting on any perceived wants.”
At Jill’s on-screen declaration, Heather heard Cal murmur in real time, “Yet you did.”
“And I’m glad I did.” Jill’s reply was so soft it was almost inaudible, and once again, Heather’s heart squeezed for the love her friend had found. Jill and Cal were seriously perfect for each other.
“Good,” Trenton replied from the TV. “Because I’d hate to have to kick his ass again.”
Pete guffawed from where he stood beside his date, and Cal paused the video to scowl at his friend.
“She never kicked my ass,” Cal asserted.
Trenton merely shot him a haughtily lifted brow. Because though she might not have kicked his entire ass, she’d totally gotten in several blows.
“You didn’t,” Cal mumbled. The comment referenced the point in time twelve years before when Cal had been the only one to return after his and Jill’s Vegas elopement. No one had heard from Jill since they’d left—and then Cal wouldn’t answer questions about her after he’d returned—so Heather and Trenton had taken it upon themselves to pay the man a little visit.
“That’s okay, baby.” Jill patted her fiancé’s thigh. “No one thinks you’re less of a man because a girl once had to set you straight.”
The entire group chortled, and Cal good-naturedly flipped the lot of them off. He then restarted the video, and as clips from both renovations continued on-screen, Aunt Blu asked if a name had been decided for the new show.
“We got a decision today,” Jill told her. “They’re calling it Building a Life.”
Aunt Blu tilted her head as if contemplating the words before giving a firm nod. The producers had decided that since the Texas Dream Home special would not only showcase the two renovations but also Jill and Cal’s story of falling in love again, they wanted to capitalize on the popularity the romance would attract. Therefore, the new show wouldn’t just be about home renovations. Simply put, it would follow Cal and Jill as they began to build all aspects of their new life.
There was the ranch and getting it up and running, the renos Jill had lined up for the first season, Cal’s workshop—where he’d build custom pieces for each renovation—and then there would be the wedding. The first half of the season would lead up to Jill and Cal’s nuptials, with the ranch’s backyard being transformed into an outdoor oasis worthy of any Hollywood A-lister’s ceremony. And who better to take on the task of that transformation . . . than Heather herself.
Heather gulped at the thought. She had no idea why she’d thought she could pull this off.
The video ended, reminding viewers to tune in starting in two weeks to fall in love with America’s next favorite couple, and Heather rose as the group whooped with excitement. The enormity of the project weighed on her. She was no landscape architect. She had a green thumb, sure. Just as her parents once had. And yeah, she’d overseen the landscaping for their company’s past projects. But before the two companies had combined, she, Jill, and Trenton had mostly been hired for smaller, more self-contained jobs. They’d been known as Queens of the She-Sheds, and as such, they’d created a niche business building unique backyard spaces for women—of which the landscaping jobs had been a fraction of the job at the ranch.
Those jobs had also not been nearly as high profile.
She slipped silently through the crowd, collecting used plates and empty soda cans, and doing her best not to let her rising panic show. She should have stuck to what she knew. Because the last thing she wanted was to screw this up.
With hands full, she turned for the house. She didn’t break stride as she entered the massive kitchen. She tossed the trash in the garbage and hurried to the powder room, and once alone, locked herself inside. Then she thumped her head back against the door. Her breathing had turned shallow, so she closed her eyes and focused on calming techniques. As one-third owner of one-half of the newly formed company, she’d had options when it came to her role on the new show.
She could have sold her share—which she’d never really considered. She’d worked hard to build what had once been Bluebonnet Construction, and she was proud of that. And she didn’t want to walk away from it.
She also could have stayed completely out of the picture, letting her portion become an investment only. That option would have left her free to seek other interests, and honestly, she’d given that one serious thought. Participating in the filming during the Texas Dream Home renovation had been enjoyable. Mostly because it had been a new experience. But unlike Jill, Heather never held any real desire to be in front of a camera. The problem, though, was that she didn’t know where her desire did lie.
She’d certainly tried to map out a path for herself over the years. She had a college degree going unused, a couple of side jobs that had never panned out—and of course the exes who’d done more damage to her psyche than provide anything lasting and good. Yet through all of it, she’d never gotten a clear picture of what she truly wanted to do with her life.
A third option concerning the new show had been to maintain the status quo. She’d worked alongside Jill and Trenton for years, and she could have continued doing exactly that. In fact, she’d been quite happy doing that. They were good at the job, and working together had put her in daily contact with her best friends—whom she’d missed terribly during her years away from Red Oak Falls.
Only, maintaining the status quo no longer meant that everything would remain the same. Because the fact was, nothing would ever again be the same. Jill would be the star of a new television show, she’d be married . . .
And Heather had suddenly found herself unsettled.
She pushed off the bathroom door and moved to peer out the small window. The instant Cal and Jill had announced their intent to marry in the half-acre space, a design had formed in Heather’s mind. A design she’d been a part of once before. So she’d thrown caution to the wind, and she’d taken door number four. She’d negotiated a new position for herself. One that very well might be over her head.
She’d prepared as best she could, though. She’d attended workshops over the summer, visited top-rated outdoor venues in person, and taken several online courses in landscape design. If that wasn’t enough, then . . .
She dropped her forehead to the windowpane. Then she’d be no worse off than she was now.
Turning, she paced to the sink, now feeling more like a caged animal than someone who’d had to get away. She wasn’t quite ready to return to the party yet, though. Not until she had her emotions under control. She didn’t think about her parents as often these days. She didn’t allow herself to. But taking on this project had brought them to the forefront. That was their backyard she would be building for Jill. Their plans for a wedding. They’d loved each other so much, so purely, that they’d planned to renew their vows on their fifteenth wedding anniversary. And they’d been letting Heather be a part of it.
But then they’d died. Just like that. One fire, one night, both dead.
And nothing in Heather’s world had ever been the same.
She stared at her reflection. The blue of her eyes had come from her mother, and before that, from her mother’s mother. Heather had known all four grandparents as a child, but within eight years, each of them had been gone. Two years after that, her parents had joined them.
Heather had been fourteen when it happened, and she’d been alone. And destroyed.
Aunt Blu had been great. Aunt Blu had been her salvation. Not to mention Jill and Trenton. The three of them had shown up at Bluebonnet Farms within the same week. They’d been Blu’s first girls as a foster mom, and the bond between the four of them was—and remained—tight.
But she still missed her mom and dad.
And she still wanted what they’d had.
Being granted the kind of love they’d shared wasn’t how it worked for her, though. She was attracted only to guys who ended up hurting her. She’d accepted that. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t do everything in her power to help make Jill’s wedding spectacular.
She’d give this project her all, and whether landscape design turned out to be her thing or not, along with giving Jill a beautiful wedding, her work would honor the love her parents once shared.
He’d been living there for only a handful of weeks, but Waylon had yet to tire of the sight that greeted him Monday evening as he crested the rise in the long driveway of the Blue Hills Cattle Ranch. With the one-story log house sitting a quarter mile off the road, it made a tranquil picture nestled among the trees and rolling hills of the three-hundred-acre spread.
He sent up his usual “thanks” as he took in the view and headed down the hill. Cal could have easily turned him away when he’d shown up seeking a job. Waylon had never fooled himself about that. A ranch manager who wasn’t 100 percent physically—and who requested every weekend off—wouldn’t be first choice for everybody.
Nor would someone with Waylon’s reputation.
He’d never lived in Red Oak Falls, but as a senior in high school, he’d become quite familiar with a handful of the residents. And granted, that lingering reputation had seemed to slow Cal’s decision-making. But in the end, he’d looked Waylon up and down, as if deciding for himself if a person could change in seven years, then he’d given a nod and offered a hearty handshake. Waylon didn’t know what Cal had seen that settled the decision for him, nor had he asked. He’d simply accepted the job with the same confidence it had been offered.
He drove toward the house now, unable to bypass it on the way to the barn, and caught sight of Cal’s truck heading his way. Straddling the edge of the gravel road, Waylon waited for his boss to pass, but Cal slowed to a stop alongside him. The other truck’s window rolled down, and Waylon could see Cal’s grandmother sitting in the passenger seat.
“Didn’t expect to see you until tomorrow,” Cal noted.
Waylon had originally planned to tack an extra day onto the long weekend. “Plans changed,” he replied. “No sense not coming back and getting to work.”
“Well, don’t start working tonight.” Cal jerked a thumb back toward the house. “Join the party instead. I’m taking Granny home, but stop in and have a bite. There’s plenty of food left over, and likely several people you’ve yet to meet.”
Cal’s grandmother leaned toward the window, her eyes turned to him, even though he knew they saw nothing. “Good to see you again, Sir Waylon.”
He tipped the brim of his hat out of habit. “And it’s good to see you, Ms. Irene. You’re looking quite lovely tonight. Too bad you’re leaving just as I’m getting home. I would’ve had to entice you into a dance or two.”
Irene’s smile was as bright as a woman’s decades younger. “Such a flirt, you are.”
“Only with those worth flirting with, Ms. Irene.”
He turned his smile back to Cal as Irene straightened in her seat and gave his boss a conspiratorial wink. He’d met Cal’s grandmother about a week after taking the job and had hit it off with the older woman immediately. Cal had brought her out and spent the day showing her around the ranch, talking nonstop as he painted pictures for her of the work going on to get the place functional, and Waylon had found himself making excuses to be around the older woman. She’d lost her sight years before, but she had a liveliness about her that pulled people in. Waylon had sensed from her that she was a woman who’d not only lived a full life, but one who’d also loved deeply. There was a calmness about her that he could use more of.
Before she’d left that day, she’d gripped his hands with both of hers and tilted her face toward his. Then she’d reached up and patted his chest with a delicate touch. She’d nodded, a look of certainty on her face, and told him he had a good heart.
The sentiment had struck hard, the words touching him as few had before.
He glanced toward the barn. “Been a long weekend. I might just head on home.”
He was mentally drained as well—as he too often was from the ending of every weekend.
“Do what you need to do,” Cal told him. “But you should at least grab a plate of food. No need letting good brisket go to waste.”
Waylon chuckled humorlessly. There was no chance anyone at the house would actually let leftover brisket go to waste, but the idea of having hand-smoked beef for dinner instead of pulling together a sandwich in his microkitchen had merit. “Thanks. I might take you up on that.” He could stop in long enough to say hello.
They spoke for a couple more minutes about the work planned for the week and the camera crews that would be invading the space in the coming days, then Cal pulled away and Waylon headed on up the narrow driveway. Waylon stopped at the house briefly and let Blu Johnson pile up a couple of plates for him. He greeted all in sight, climbed back into his truck, then pointed the nose of the vehicle toward the barn.
The structure had been completed before Waylon had arrived, and it housed seven horse stalls, a tack room, a feed room, an office, additional storage space, and the small one-bedroom apartment. The apartment was on the second floor, with a view overlooking both the ranch, as well as the interior of the barn.
As he pulled to a stop, his attention settled on the sky to the west. The sun had dropped below the horizon while he’d been at the house, but the remaining colors were the real show. The long streaks of light made him glad he’d ultimately settled into ranching as a career. It sure beat the years he’d spent in Vegas.
Stepping from the truck, he grabbed the food, needing both hands to balance it all, and kicked the door closed with the heel of his boot. He winced at the streak of pain that shot through his right thigh, but he didn’t let the physical barrier slow him. He rarely did. Instead, he elbowed the barn’s sliding doors open just enough to wedge himself through, his taste buds already salivating at the thought of the brisket, but made it barely ten feet inside before he stopped. Murmurs came from one of the back stalls, and a light was on in the tack room.
The hair on the back of his neck immediately rose before common sense took hold. The sounds were feminine in nature. Definitely nonthreatening. And if someone were there to do harm, they’d likely not announce it by turning on a light.
Releasing a breath, he forced his muscles to relax and eased closer, more curious now than concerned. He had his ears attuned to the sounds, but even fifteen feet away, he couldn’t make out the words. He took two more steps. And then he stopped again.
It wasn’t talking but singing coming from behind the stall door.
And the tune was agonizingly sad.
He stood frozen, listening, as the feel of his own heartbeat vibrated against his ribcage. The song drifted toward the rafters, seeming to hover above him, and he closed his eyes and listened. Soft words of both heartbreak and hope held him spellbound for another thirty seconds, before he couldn’t take it any longer. He had to know who was in the stall.
And why she was singing to his gelding.
As if walking through a dense morning fog, he made it the remaining distance and peered through the welded bars that made up the top half of the stall . . . to discover a woman sitting atop an overturned bucket. She was positioned directly in front of Ollie—her back to Waylon—and in the small pool of light coming from the open tack room door, he could see that the horse stared down at her as intently as Waylon was now doing himself. She had both of them entranced.
The song ended, and he managed to refill his lungs. Then he watched as the woman reached up and stroked Ollie’s muzzle. The horse hadn’t taken note of him yet, but Waylon couldn’t blame him. If he had a redheaded siren singing a song to him, he’d tune out the rest of the world, too.
The woman pressed her forehead to Ollie’s, and Waylon found himself jealous of a horse.
And he still had no idea who she was.
Finally, he forced himself to break the spell she’d woven. He cleared his throat as subtly as he could manage, but the noise had her jumping to her feet. The bucket tumbled over and skittered toward him, and Ollie sidestepped, tossing his head back with a soft whinny. The woman stretched one hand out to calm Ollie, but didn’t take her eyes off him.
“I’m . . .” she began. She lowered her eyes for a quick second before lifting them again, and suddenly she looked as skittish as his horse—but also a tad embarrassed. “Uh . . .”
“Heather.” Waylon filled in. He had yet to meet her, but he’d recognized her the instant she’d turned around. Her name had been mentioned a few times over the last couple of weeks, and he knew what she looked like from a picture he’d seen at the house. “You’re Jill’s friend,” he added, when she didn’t so much as blink at her name.
Her throat worked as she swallowed.
“Right?” he asked. “The one doing the backyard?” Had he gotten it wrong?
And if he had, then who was she?
Heather finally nodded. Then she looked at Ollie.
She stared at the horse with a hard intensity, and Waylon suspected she was trying to get her embarrassment under control before speaking.
“Don’t worry,” he told her. He nodded toward the animal when she finally turned back. “I often sing to Ollie, too. The poor guy had his balls cut off one day, and suddenly he’s a softy who wants to be cuddled and crooned to before bedding down every night.”
That seemed to snap her out of it, and a hint of laughter made it to his ears.
Her smile was gorgeous.
“I’m Waylon, by the way. The—”
“Ranch manager,” she filled in, and he gave her a smile of his own. It wouldn’t beat hers, but he knew that women tended to like it.
“Right,” he said. He glanced at her hand, which had lowered and was now feeding Ollie a chunk of apple. “So you’re out here instead of up at the house because . . . you prefer feeding my gelding an apple over attending a party?”
Her dimples deepened. “Something like that.”
She pulled another hunk of apple from a paper bag he hadn’t noticed before and fed the treat to Ollie, and once again, Waylon found himself wishing he were the horse. Only, with his balls intact.
He also found himself far too interested in a woman he’d just met.
“I’m sure Ollie appreciates it.” He couldn’t take his eyes off hers. “The poor boy rarely gets the attention of such a beautiful woman, much less one who brings him apples and sings to him.”
A touch of embarrassment returned to her features, twisting up the corners of her lips the cutest amount. But she also produced an exaggerated eye roll. “Well, that certainly didn’t take long.”
Confusion had him pulling back. “What didn’t take long?”
“Your flirting.” A spark flashed in her eyes. “I’ve heard all about it, you know? In fact”—she gave Ollie one final pat before grabbing the overturned bucket and heading Waylon’s way—“I’ve heard several things about you, Mr. Peterson. And let me just go on the record right now and tell you”—she looked straight into his eyes as she stopped, her on one side of the stable door, and him on the other—“your charm won’t work on me.”
Had that been a challenge?
Because if it had been . . .
“Is that so?” He took a step back so she could join him outside the stall, and he let his eyes drift down over her jean-clad backside as she turned to refasten the latch. “Then I should give you fair warning. My record is quite stellar once I decide I want something.”
She cut her eyes up at him. “Then I’d suggest you don’t decide you want something.”
He wanted to laugh at the quick words. At the easy flirting. But he had yet to decide if she really was flirting. In one instant, her eyes burned hot, and he read in them what was so often clear in the opposite sex’s gaze. But in the next moment . . .
He couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but something completely contrasting seemed to lurk in there as well. Something that had him taking another step back.
“Are you okay?” he asked casually. He adjusted his tone to match his question. “I mean . . . you are hiding out here in the barn when a party is going on up at the house.”
The light from the other room barely reached where they now stood, and he was aware he could be totally off in his thinking. But at his question, he suddenly found himself being studied in the same manner that a science student might investigate her first animal dissection. Her eyes bored into his, leaving him feeling as exposed as the poor frog might feel if still alive, and he involuntarily clenched his fingers around the plates of food in his hands.
“I’m fine,” she finally answered. Her gaze lowered to the scruff of beard running the length of his jawline. “And I’m not hiding out in here.”
“Then what are you doing?”
She tossed the empty paper bag into a garbage can, and moved to the only other occupied stall in the building. “I’m feeding apples to your horses.” She reached out to the larger of the two animals and rubbed the stallion on the nose. “And don’t worry, I didn’t overlook Beau, here. I gave the big guy a couple of treats as well.”
Now he was jealous of Beau. “But did you sing for him?”
She glanced back, no doubt noting the added huskiness to his voice. But dang, there was some crazy electricity pinging between them, and he wasn’t in full control of his reactions.
“I’m afraid I only give one performance a night.”
She was short, the top of her head not coming anywhere near Beau’s snout, and Waylon suddenly sensed sadness in her.
That’s what he’d zeroed in on before. And that made him want to know even more.
“Too bad,” he murmured. He took a couple of steps in her direction, unaware he’d moved until her gaze dropped to his bum leg.
He froze.
“So how do you know my horses?” He picked a new topic before she could ask about his limp. “I haven’t seen you at the ranch before today, but clearly, the three of you have met.”
She nodded and eased a step toward the main doors. “Dill introduced us.”
Dill was the eighteen-year-old Waylon had hired to work part time. He came in on weekends, as well as Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings, while spending the rest of his time either in school or studying.
“I’ve stopped by on a couple of Saturdays,” Heather explained. She didn’t take her eyes from his, while her body language screamed “poised for flight.” “Work on the backyard starts next week,” she continued. “I needed to map out the space before ordering supplies.”
“And what?” The barn now held an intoxicating aroma that was a mix of hay, horses . . . and oranges. “You can only map out the space on weekends?”
Her head cocked at his words, her eyes narrowing as if searching for the intent behind them, but he kept his features impassive. No way would he acknowledge the lunacy of his thoughts. Of course she hadn’t come to the ranch only when she knew he wouldn’t be there. They’d never even met. His schedule would have nothing to do with hers.
Yet the way she watched him . . .
“Are you asking if I only stop by when I . . . suspect you’re not around?”
“Do you suspect I’m not around on weekends?”
A hint of dimples reappeared. “I might have heard a rumor or two along those lines.”
The words had him grinning along with her. Yep. She knew his schedule. But what did that mean, exactly? “And what if I said the rumors weren’t true?” He watched her carefully. “Would you want to know what I do with my weekends instead?”
His question seemed to surprise her, as her look once again shifted as if he were that same dissected frog.
After an endless few seconds, she angled her chin higher. “Would you actually tell me the truth if I did want to know?”
He had a feeling he’d tell her too many things. “If you asked nicely, I might.”
But she didn’t ask, nicely or otherwise. She simply continued to study him, as if unsure how to make up her mind about him. Or maybe unsure if she wanted to make up her mind.
He’d spent many evenings in town since moving there, and he’d had more than his share of women offering to welcome him to the area. It had been like that since he’d first started growing facial hair. And though he rarely encouraged the women to find someone else to share a meal with—mostly because he preferred the company of others to being alone—he had higher priorities these days than bedding every woman he met. Priorities that took him out of town every weekend.
He took another step in Heather’s direction, and again, she matched his move.
They stood six feet apart, each facing the other, and he had the thought that if he could get her pointed toward the stairs to his apartment, he’d back her right up them.
“Do I make you nervous, Heather?”
“Of course you don’t.”
He took one more step toward her . . . and she took one more step back.
“Then why do you move every time I do?”
“Why are you moving at all?” she rebutted.
He grinned. “Would you believe me if I said I can’t help myself?”
Unlike before, she didn’t voice her answer. She simply shook her head. But she also seemed to be waiting for his next move. Not leaving. Not telling him to back off. She just waited. As if feeling the same pull of attraction that he was—and equally unable to resist.
He stayed in the same spot, though. Not making any moves. Because he didn’t want to send her running, but also because he had no idea what to do to get her to stay.
After a moment, she ended the game for both of them. She glanced beyond him, to the tack room in the back. “Do you want me to turn off the light before I go?”
“What if I don’t want you to go?”
Her gaze quickly jerked back to his, and he had the urge to shrug. To blow the moment off and pretend the words hadn’t come from his mouth. But he did want her to stay. And it wasn’t only that he didn’t want to be alone again just yet.
“Join me for dinner?” He lifted the plates in his hands, and did his best to keep his tone light. “I understand the brisket is to die for.”
A faint smile touched her lips. “The brisket is definitely to die for. But I’ve already eaten.”
“Have you had dessert?”
His desperation for her attention astounded him, but when her gaze dropped to the plates, he could sense her yearning for whatever lay hidden beneath the foil.
“Stay,” he urged. “By the weight of these plates, I have more than enough for two.” He nodded toward the stairs that led to the apartment. “I could even offer you coffee or a glass of tea.”
Heather didn’t immediately reply. She let her gaze travel in the direction he’d indicated instead, moving up the narrow staircase before taking in the enclosed space with the single window overlooking the interior of the barn. His temporary quarters sat to the left at the top of the stairs, while the barn’s open loft was accessed on the right. A small security light burned from a post opposite the apartment’s only door, and Waylon watched as she took it all in. And though he was perfectly willing to share nothing more than dessert, he also knew that one hint from her and he’d offer more.
He’d beg for it if he thought it would get him anywhere.
“I . . . ummm . . .” She swallowed instead of finishing her sentence. Then she blew out a breath and returned her gaze to his. A tight smile appeared on her face. “No cake.” She eyed the plates in his hands. “Unfortunately.”
He glanced down in confusion. “Is it bad cake?”
“God, no.” Her laugh arrowed straight to his groin. “Aunt Blu’s orange chiffon cake is the stuff heaven is made of.” She tossed another glance at his apartment, as if to casually check it out, but Waylon watched as her gaze lingered there. Then her front teeth bit down on her bottom lip. “But . . . ummm”—she swallowed again, and when she finally dragged her gaze back to his, her eyes had glazed over—“my hips.”
He looked at her hips. “What about them?”
She jolted as he stared, and a look of horror registered on her face. “Ah geez.” She dropped her head into her hands. “I so didn’t mean to say that.”
Waylon grinned. “You mean, you didn’t intend for me to check out your hips?”
“No.” She glared at him through her fingers. “I did not intend for you to check out my hips.”
He checked them out again.
“Stop it.” She flapped both hands at him.
“But I don’t see anything wrong with them.”
“There’s nothing—” She bit off her words and narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m talking about the cake going straight to my hips. Unneeded calories, Mr. Peterson. Surely you’ve been around women enough to understand how that works? Especially on a short”—she looked down at herself and mumbled—“curvy woman.”
Waylon’s grin grew wider. “I certainly enjoy looking at hips.” He eyed the body part in question once again, this time tilting his head as if to get a better view. “And especially on short, curvy women.”
“Stop it,” Heather spoke, barely moving her lips. She began backing toward the front of the barn, not stopping until she reached the doors. “And do not look at my hips again.”
“No need to,” he deadpanned. “They’re already burned into my retinas.”
She glared at him one last time before turning to locate the already-open doors, but just before she slipped through them, Waylon called out. “I’ll save a piece of cake in case you change your mind.”
She looked back.
“I’ll also offer to help burn off those unneeded calories.”
His voice deepened more than he’d intended, his suggestion abundantly clear, but she gave no reply. Instead, they stood facing each other once again, the shadows in the barn lengthening around them while Waylon silently begged her to change her mind. She intrigued him, she turned him the hell on, and she made him want to forget his troubles. At least for the night.
She apparently didn’t feel the same, though, because in the next instant, Waylon found himself looking at nothing but the dark night. While one of the horses snorted behind him.
He turned to find both animals, heads hanging low over the yoked openings of their stalls, looking as poleaxed as he felt. “I know, boys.” Waylon started for the stairs. He didn’t bother with either the light or the open barn doors. “It was the highlight of my night, too.”