Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 114263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
This time, I don’t protest. I just wrap my arms around his neck and allow myself to revel in the luxury of being carried around by a scruffy, foul-mouthed cowboy.
Maybe there really is a heaven, and this is it.
He carries me up the stairs and through the front door. I’m just able to glimpse how clean and neat the interior is before Cash is setting me down inside an absolutely gorgeous bathroom.
It’s rustic; the floor, ceiling, and walls are covered in wood, but the fixtures are all modern. There’s a glass-walled shower, a marble-topped vanity, and a huge, freestanding copper tub that gleams in the low light.
“My one request,” Cash says as he digs a couple of bags out of a cabinet underneath the sink. “The tub. Nothing helps sore muscles like a long, hot soak.”
Scoffing, I look away, my eyes burning. I don’t know why the fact that Cash loves a soak makes me want to cry. Maybe because Dad probably took a lot of pride in restoring this house exactly how Cash wanted it? In being there for this poor guy who lost his parents, dropped out of school, and raised his brothers on his own?
Maybe Dad wasn’t a bad person. Maybe I’m not either. Maybe we were both just hurt people, and we did the best we could with what we had.
Just because we weren’t good to each other doesn’t mean we haven’t been good to the people who are in our lives.
Cash turns on the tap that fills the bathtub. Glancing at the bags he set on the counter, I see that they’re Epsom salts.
Holy God. This cowboy is drawing me a bath. With Epsom salt. Because I’m sore and sad and he’s apparently a thoughtful, stand-up guy.
Would he climb in with me if I asked him?
I clear my throat. “So the supplies you were talking about—”
“The salt. And the privacy. Wasn’t sure if you had them at the New House.”
“I don’t think I do.”
After pouring several cups of salt into the water, he straightens, drawing to his full height. The cabin has low ceilings, and Cash looks huge in here. And broad. And sweaty.
“Soak for at least twenty minutes.” He points at the water. “An hour is better, though, so take your time.” He turns, opening a cabinet beside the shower to grab a pair of towels. “I’ll set these on the counter here. Anything else you need?”
I blink, speechless. The herbal, almost-minty scent of eucalyptus blooms inside the room, making my heart skip a beat.
That’s what I’m always smelling on Cash’s skin. He must bathe often in this stuff.
Taking his hat off his head, he spears a hand through his hair. “What?”
“Who the fuck are you?”
His lips twitch. “Your foreman. Now get in the tub.”
Then he walks past me and closes the door.
CHAPTER 18
Cash
STUCK
What’s that thing British people say? Keep calm and carry on?
I try my best to do exactly that as I head for the kitchen. Steady, even steps.
Steady, even heartbeat.
Only it’s not steady. It sure as hell ain’t even. My pulse pounds through my body like a shock wave, every beat a reminder that Mollie Luck is getting naked in my bathroom right now.
I pour myself a glass of water and down it. Sweat rolls down my neck and back. I startle when I hear a thump.
“Sorry!” Mollie calls. “Just my boots.”
Glancing at the bottle of añejo tequila beside the fridge, I wonder if I should take a shot. Or three. It’s almost four o’clock. Close enough to five, right?
It’s wrong to think about what Mollie looks like, taking off her clothes. Totally wrong to imagine her shimmying out of her jeans, the denim falling to the floor along with her panties.
She was just crying in the barn, for fuck’s sake. Poor thing is a mess. I need to make sure she’s okay.
I don’t need to fantasize about grabbing that tequila and opening the bathroom door and—
No. Nope. Can’t—won’t—go there.
So I chug my water, and I wait for the tight feeling in my skin to dissipate.
Mollie worked hard today. Too hard. I shouldn’t have let her come out to the barn after lunch. But I did, and I feel terrible about not noticing sooner how much she was hurting.
It’s why I brought her here. Sure, I could’ve dropped her off at the New House. Mollie’s a grown woman. She can take care of herself.
What if I want to take care of her, though?
Even seasoned ranch hands like me get sore upon occasion. Never fun. Mollie is really sore, and I know it’s going to take more than a couple Advil to make her feel better.
Was I wrong to run her a bath? Part of me feels like I’m crossing a boundary. An intimate boundary. Normal people don’t invite their bosses into their homes for a soak.