by Carly Bloom
Sensing he was being discussed by a beautiful female and not fully comprehending his lack of balls, Oscar jumped his scrawny butt up onto Claire’s lap.
“Shoo,” Ford said, moving to knock Oscar off those luscious legs.
“Leave him alone,” Claire said, rubbing the cat’s head. “And this is how you pet a cat, by the way.”
“I know how to pet a cat, darlin’.”
He hadn’t meant that to sound dirty. But he’d had absolutely no trouble making her purr.
“I thought you said you needed a shower.”
Boy, did he. A cold one. “If you want to lie down, you can take the bed. I’ll take the couch.”
Claire shrugged and spooned some more chowder into her mouth, and Ford responded with a grunt before heading for the bathroom, where he closed the door and leaned against it in relief.
Maybe he could just sleep in here. It was kind of cozy. He could put a blanket on the floor and if he curled up just so, there was enough space between the shower and toilet—
Something pink and lacy was draped over the tub.
Ford picked up the small slip of silk and lace. Claire’s panties. He swallowed. The woman liked her fancy underwear. He hung them up on the shower curtain rod, and then he stepped into the shower spray, unleashing a torrent of curse words when the icy cold water hit his back.
She’d used up all his hot water.
Twenty minutes later he emerged, satisfied that every part of him had been thoroughly prunified and rendered useless. He hadn’t thought to bring any clean clothes in with him, so he wrapped a towel around his waist and quietly eased the bathroom door open.
He tiptoed out. The door to the bedroom was closed. He jiggled the knob.
Locked.
He turned and looked at the short, uncomfortable couch. With a frown, he grabbed a blanket from the closet. Then he shunned the couch and sat on the floor in front of the fireplace. After a few minutes of watching the flames dance, he stretched his cowboy ass out right there on the ground.
He shifted on the hard floor.
Maybe coming back to Rancho Cañada Verde was a mistake. He laughed out loud.
Of course it was.
Chapter Six
Claire awoke to sunshine and birdsong. She yawned and stretched. It was Saturday, and she didn’t have to be at Petal Pushers until noon.
Maybe she’d sink back into the silky sheets…
Her eyes flew open. The sheets did not feel silky.
She sat straight up. Not her sheets. She looked around. Not her room. She peeked through the window. Not her outside.
Memories smacked into her like a freight train—bad date, stalled car, flash flood, pissed-off cowboy—and she groaned. Not a pleasant way to begin the day.
She looked at her phone. Still no signal. The tower had probably been hit by lightning. She flipped the switch on the lamp, and nothing happened. Either the lightbulb was toast or the electricity was still out.
She tossed off the non-silky sheets and padded to the window. Brilliant blue sky. No sign at all of last night’s destruction, except for some massive puddles and a few tree limbs on the ground. She absolutely loved the Texas Hill Country after a good soaking, and part of her longed to open the window and inhale the crisp air. But last night they’d received more than a good soaking. This was no time to fling open windows and sing like a princess.
With a sigh, she unlocked the door.
Judging from the sun, it was well past seven. Ford rose before dawn and tended to look down his nose at anybody who didn’t. He’d probably already had his breakfast and assessed the damage from the storm, and if Wailing Woman was passable, was already hard at work somewhere on the ranch.
But there was no coffee aroma when she opened the door. All the blinds were shut up tight, and it was dark in the room.
Claire looked down, and oh! Ford lay stretched out on the hard, stone floor, either dead or sound asleep (from the soft snoring sounds it was the latter) and naked as a jaybird. Oscar was curled up on his stomach, rising and falling with every deep breath Ford took.
Should she go back in her room and wait until Ford woke up and got dressed? That was probably best. She turned to head back to the bedroom, but her bare foot squeaked on the rock floor. It was enough to startle Oscar, who jumped and ran as if a gun had gone off.
Ford sat up with eyes as wide as saucers, adorably mussed hair, and a stubbled chin hanging open in confusion.
He did not seem to realize he was naked or that Claire was even in the room.
She cleared her throat, and he looked in her direction. Slowly, his eyes focused.
“Jesus. What are you doing here?”
Claire ticked off the acclimating facts. “Rancho Cañada Verde. Flood. Rancher’s daughter.”
Clarity took over Ford’s features, hardening them to their usual stony-faced mask. He stood swiftly, and when he did, everything was all out there in the open, radiating enthusiasm because Ford’s crankiness hadn’t worked its way south.
Ford gasped and comically spun around to hide himself, giving her a glorious view of his backside, which was no less impressive than the front side. Horseback riding made for some nice thighs and buttocks.
He grabbed a towel off the floor and tossed it up. He caught it in one hand and wrapped it snugly around his waist while glancing over his shoulder. “You could turn around.”
“It’s not like I haven’t seen it before.”
Oscar poked his head out from beneath the couch, looked at Ford’s glowering face, and ducked back under again.
Ford stomped to the kitchen sink and filled the coffee carafe with water. “What time is it?”
Claire opened a blind to let some sunshine in. Maybe it would chase away the storm cloud simmering over Ford’s head. “Somebody wakes up cranky, and I have no idea what time it is. Also? The electricity is still out, so good luck with that coffeepot.”
“Shit,” Ford said. He glanced at the clock above the stove. “It’s nearly nine o’clock.”
“When’s the last time you slept this late?”
“Never.” The towel slipped a bit as Ford reached into an upper cabinet. “I saw an old stovetop percolator up here somewhere…”
Oscar slinked out from beneath the couch and rubbed against Claire’s ankles. Next, he visited Ford’s, but he was shaken off with muttered curses.
Oscar wasn’t having it. He quivered, assumed the attack position, and then pounced on a stupidly unsuspecting Ford, snagging his claw on the towel.
The percolator made a horrible clatter when it hit the floor, and Oscar exploded in a mass of claws, fur, and terrycloth towel. He ricocheted off the walls, dragging the towel behind him. And in the middle of it all stood a very naked Ford, clenching his jaw and making no attempt to cover himself.
Claire masked a giggle with a fake sneeze. At least, she tried to mask it.
“You think this is funny?”
She snorted.
Ford reached over just in time to catch a lamp as Oscar shot past, towel snapping every which way. “Would you try and grab him?”
Claire made a grab at Oscar as he shot under the couch, missing him by a mile.
The towel poked out from beneath the couch, and Ford rushed over and stomped on it. Then he bent and slowly pulled it out, dragging the cat with it.
“Dumbass cat,” he said, picking the animal up by the scruff of its neck and unsnagging his claw.
Claire leaned over to pet Oscar just as Ford straightened, and it brought them dang near nose to penis.
Claire froze.
Ford froze.
And then one part of him moved with enthusiasm.
* * *
He could feel her warm breath on his cock.
Move, asshole. Take a step back. Then another. And then run for the hills.
Every hair on his body stood at attention. Every nerve ending was lit up in anticipation of what might be coming. His skin literally vibrated.
If he were to gently place a hand o
n Claire’s head right now, he’d be enveloped by heaven. His mind would go blank. His thoughts and worries would disappear. Claire would reduce him to a mass of nerve endings and pleasure receptors incapable of reason.
He felt himself slipping away…
His brain was disengaging from his physical body…
Claire moved suddenly, and boom! She shoved him. Hard. He took two steps back and stomped on Oscar’s tail.
The cat screeched and shot across the room.
Ford’s consciousness landed rudely back in his body and he covered himself with his hands as blood vacated his penis to invade his cheeks. Oscar had the nerve to slink back over and rub against his ankles. Ford gave him a slight shove with his foot.
Claire gasped. “What did you just do?”
Ford couldn’t form words. And anyway, which action was she referring to? The one where he’d shoved the cat with his foot? Or the one where he’d unwittingly lined himself up for a blowjob?
This was no way to begin his stint on Rancho Cañada Verde.
Claire glared at him, and his cheeks heated up even more. But whatever the hell he’d just been doing, he hadn’t been doing it by himself.
“What about you? What did you just do?”
“Shoved a naked man out of my face.”
“I wasn’t in your face on purpose, and it took you a full ten seconds to do it, which was unnecessary, because I was about to back up.”
Two of those three things were true.
It was clear that whatever attraction he and Claire had had for each other—the one that rendered both of them incapable of reasonable thought—was still here. They’d both just gone loco.
Now Claire’s cheeks were pink.
Her eyes darted to where his hands cupped his goods, and goddammit, the goods started to react. His dick was like a teeter-totter around Claire…up and down, up and down.
He leaned over, picked up the towel, and wrapped it around his waist. Then he spun on his heel to march into his bedroom and find the nearest pair of jeans.
Unfortunately, he tripped over the cat.
Claire probably got an eyeful of cheeks and balls as he went down. Maybe that’s what made her gasp. Or possibly, it was the horrible sound his head made when it hit the floor because he couldn’t break his fall without dropping the towel.
Did Claire see clouds of stars floating in the air, too? Or was it just him?
Claire knelt at his side. “Are you okay?”
He caught a glimpse of smooth thigh and realized she wasn’t wearing much more than he was. Still gripping the towel, he pushed himself up into a sitting position. “I’m fine.”
“I’m not convinced,” Claire said.
Fine was subjective. Was he able to climb five flights of stairs right now? Probably not. Could he crawl to his bedroom and put on some goddam pants? Yes. And that was his current definition of fine.
Claire sucked in a deep breath. “Your lip is bleeding.”
She touched it with her fingers. Her blue eyes were filled with genuine concern, and Ford swore everything was starting to feel better just from her fingers brushing against his skin.
“That’s because I just kissed a rock floor.”
Oscar sat in the corner, twitching his tail and looking fairly satisfied with himself.
“How many fingers am I holding up?” Claire asked, wiggling two fingers in front of Ford’s face.
He waved her hand away. “Stop it.”
“Let me help you up at least.”
Ford rolled his eyes, but he didn’t jerk his arm away when she grasped it, and he let her help him stand.
“Can you manage to get yourself dressed?”
Ford stilled. Gave her the side-eye, and quietly said, “Are you offering to help me?”
Claire’s cheeks turned even pinker. “No. I don’t really think I should.”
This was not going to be an easy six weeks.
Ford limped into his bedroom, which still smelled like Claire, and glanced at the indention in the pillow where her head had been. He stood in the silence for a moment, just feeling her. It’s like she’d left an echo in the room.
He shook his head. Shrugged it off. It was damn near ten o’clock. The water had surely receded enough to get over the bridge at Harper’s. Everyone on the ranch was probably already hard at work.
And what was Ford’s excuse for being late?
He’d spent the night with the rancher’s daughter before oversleeping and then getting into a literal catfight.
They hadn’t done anything—thank God—but Gerome wouldn’t know that. What a way to make an impression.
He wandered over to the dresser and pulled a pair of jeans out of a drawer. He snapped them three times in the air (scorpions always came in threes) just in case an unwelcome visitor had made itself at home. He stepped in with his left leg first, because doing it the other way around was bad luck. And he’d had enough of that already.
Chapter Seven
Claire pulled at the hem of Ford’s flannel shirt. It wasn’t like she could go anywhere like this. “Can you lend me some jeans?”
Ford sighed and yanked open a drawer, grabbed a pair of jeans, and tossed them to her. Then he opened another drawer and snagged a white T-shirt. “Here,” he said, tossing that, as well.
“I hate to ask, but I lost my shoes—”
He nodded at a pair of boots in the corner. “They’ll be too big, but they’ll do until you get home.”
Claire held the waistband of the jeans out. “Speaking of big…”
Ford grabbed a belt off the dresser and pulled a knife out of his pocket. “This is an old belt. I’ll poke an extra hole or two in it.”
Two minutes later, Claire was alone in the room. She turned so she could see her derriere in the mirror over Ford’s dresser. The jeans actually weren’t that bad. Big in the waist, but the rear view was pretty decent.
She tightened the belt, rolled the jeans up at the ankles, and finished the look by putting the flannel back on and tying it in a knot. She struck a couple of poses. All she needed to complete the sexy farmer’s daughter look was a stick of straw to suck on.
Although if she sucked on anything right now it would probably cause Ford to have an aneurism.
Their sexual attraction was still there. Just as big as ever. And speaking of big, they’d had a stupidly close call. And Ford was right on the money about her hesitation when his penis had ended up mere inches from her mouth.
She’d hesitated, all right.
It would have been so easy to give in to temptation. She could remember exactly what Ford felt like in her hands, what he tasted like on her tongue. But mostly, she remembered the sound of his breath catching at the thrill of his release. The melting that followed.
She’d never felt about anyone the way she’d felt about him. And this meant that her heart was still vulnerable in his hands. He’d crushed it once. She couldn’t let him do it again.
Distance. They needed distance.
Buying Petal Pushers would definitely give her something to do that would keep her away from Ford. There was so much to do! She’d need financing, suppliers, a marketing plan…
It was exciting, and none of it involved a cowboy or being in the presence of a cowboy or accidentally landing on top of (or beneath) a cowboy.
She squared her shoulders, breathed in a big old whopping sense of purpose, and walked happily outside, oversized boots slapping on the ground like flippers. The air was cool and the sun was shining bright. There was even a rainbow!
Rainbows were good luck.
Ford stood at the stable gate. Coco was on the other side, and the two of them looked up as if she’d just interrupted a conversation. Ford’s eyes drifted above her head. “That damn horseshoe over the door won’t stay upright. Do you mind flipping it over?”
Claire straightened it. There wasn’t a cowboy alive who could tolerate an upside-down horseshoe, with or without a lucky rainbow.
“Hop in the truc
k,” Ford said. “We’ll head to your folks’ place.”
Claire climbed in. She was anxious to get to Petal Pushers and scheme with Maggie, but she might have to spend the day dealing with piddly-assed insurance details over her car instead. And she’d need a new set of wheels.
She sighed. Maybe the Mini Cooper wasn’t the most practical decision she’d ever made. But after a lifetime of driving ugly white ranch trucks around, she’d wanted something fun and sporty.
“Listen, I’ve been thinking,” Ford said.
He was wearing the hat she liked. The one with the turned-down brim that made him look like a badass. But she wasn’t going to think about his hat or the way his jeans stretched tightly across his muscular thighs or the way the morning sun turned his hazel eyes green.
“I heard about your car getting washed away from Deputy Flores,” Ford said. “Over the emergency radio scanner. And I’m wondering if he came to the same conclusion I did.”
“That people who drive small cars are stupid?”
“No. That it was your car. Because, you know, not too many people around here drive little red Mini Coopers.”
Claire’s heart nearly stopped. “Does that mean—”
“He would have told your parents.”
A wave of nausea rolled through Claire. Her parents probably thought she was dead! She pulled out her phone and stared at it. Useless.
“We still don’t have cell service,” Ford said. “And I don’t like the way Coco was acting. He kept looking in the direction of the creek, like maybe he sensed something was off.”
“What are you saying?”
He glanced at Claire. “I think this might have been more than a bad storm.”
“Oh, Ford, please hurry.”
“I am, darlin’.” Ford’s jaw was clenched. And his knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel. He sounded calm and in control, but it was obvious he was just as anxious as she was.
“Do you think the crossing is still underwater?” she asked.
“Yes,” Ford said. “I’m headed to Harper’s Hill. It’s higher.”
The seconds felt like hours as they drove the backroads to Harper’s Hill. The truck struggled with the muddy inclines, and water stood along both sides of the road. Judging from the debris—some was even stuck in the trees—the water had been very high.
