Cowboy Lessons. Pamela Britton
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inside the door and—holy moley—bent over to tug off her boots. Slowly, like a stripper. Not that he’d seen many strippers wearing rubber boots…or any strippers, period. But he imagined one would take off rubber boots slowly like she did, exposing one inch of flesh at a time.
Unbelievable. Who would have thought the sight of her slipping off latex boots would be sexy? But darned if it wasn’t.
She glanced up just then—saw that he was staring at her legs—and straightened abruptly.
A voice inside his head said, uh-oh.
“I’ll go find you a clean shirt.”
Scott was not a stupid man. He realized ogling a woman who would be responsible for his safekeeping in the coming week was likely not a wise thing to do. She looked as if she was fighting to hold on to her temper.
“Thanks.”
She pressed her lips together before she turned on her now bare—and might he add, adorable—feet to head back toward the bedrooms. She had nice ankles, he realized. Petite yet sturdy.
Sturdy?
What was she, a cow? And yet like a herd animal himself, he suddenly found himself following her. A bull. He was Ferdinand the Bull.
She turned. Their bodies connected. She jerked back, her hand splaying on his chest. “What are you doing?”
“Following you.”
“Don’t do that. I’ll bring you the shirt.”
“Where will I change? After all, I wouldn’t want you going all mushy on me when you catch sight of my hard body.”
Did she blush? Did she actually blush? Incredible.
“You want to get the shirt, fine. My father’s room is at the end of the hall. I’m going to get dressed.”
She would get dressed…
Her arms lifting her nightgown, her breasts revealed. Skin so smooth it looked like wedding satin exposed to his flesh….
“Mr. Beringer?”
He started.
“Did you hear me?”
He felt his own cheeks fill with color. Amazing. Now he was blushing.
“Yeah. That’s fine.”
She stared up at him with narrowed eyes. “If you want to wash up, you can use the bathroom attached to my father’s bedroom.”
For a second his imagination twisted the words into an invitation to share the shower with her.
In your dreams, Scott.
“Be careful because the tap water gets hot fast.” She kept her gaze on him for a second longer, as if she was worried he might still follow her.
“Thanks.”
She gave him one last look before turning away. Wow. What was it about her that had him thinking such testosterone-charged thoughts? That had him wondering what kind of man she was attracted to? That had him wishing it was his kind of man.
You’re not her type, Scott old man.
No, but he could dream, couldn’t he?
Just one night in bed with her. That’s all he wanted. He wasn’t fool enough to believe anything more than that could last. It never did.
It took him only a second to find the room in question, and the shirt, and then he began to wash up and change. By the time he’d finished, he heard her running a shower. That shot a new burst of energy through him. Amanda Johnson naked. That must be a sight. She’d be tanned. He wondered if it was an all-over tan.
Scott, you’re losing it.
He was, but he’d known that before arriving. During the week he’d been away he’d found himself thinking of her constantly. During the long, long flight back from Singapore he’d wondered if he’d feel the same way when he saw her again. Despite having embarrassed himself in front of her again, he did.
Distraction. He needed a distraction. The kitchen. Only a handful of people knew that he loved to cook. Hell, he was a better-than-average cook. He was a great cook. Scott had long since figured out that his love of food probably had something to do with his lack of it as a child. But whatever the reason, he prided himself on his hidden talent.
She was in the shower alone.
Stop it, Scott.
Five minutes later he’d found pans, spices and various other items he might need. The appliances were ancient, but the place had a homey feeling to it. Chickens ran around the wallpaper, the curtains and the small rug in front of the sink. He’d even found an apron in the shape of a giant chicken in the drawer, the wings spreading back to tie around his waist. He put it on without a moment’s hesitation, then opened the refrigerator door in preparation for a raid.
“What are you doing?”
Scott turned, startled to see a wet-haired Amanda standing in the doorway. What’d she do, jump in and out?
You’ll need a cold shower if you keep reacting to her in this way.
Darn, but if he’d thought her pretty with that cascade of hair falling loose around her shoulders, she was even prettier with it slicked back.
“I’m going to cook you breakfast.”
“I don’t eat breakfast.”
Something inside Scott fizzled like a spent fire-cracker. “You don’t?”
She shook her head.
He told himself not to be disappointed. Regroup, Scott. No big deal. She likely wouldn’t have been impressed by his cooking skills, anyway. “Ah, but you’ve never had one of my breakfasts.”
Her pretty blue eyes looked large and luminous without her hair framing her face. “Mr. Beringer.”
“Scott,” he instantly corrected.
“Scott,” she said. “A rancher usually feeds the livestock before he feeds himself.”
“Really?”
She nodded.
“But I thought we were the dominant predators.”
“The what?”
“We eat when we want to eat. They eat when we want them to eat.”
She shook her head. “They get mad when they’re made to wait. And you saw what happens when a bull gets angry.”
His suitcase. He’d forgotten about it.
“But I was going to make you my special huevos rancheros in honor of my first day on the homestead.”
Her eyes narrowed—it must have been the word homestead. It didn’t take a man with a doctorate in computer science to figure out that she was thinking it was no longer her homestead.
“Do you want to learn about ranching or not?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then let’s go.”
“Not until we eat. You know, breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”
“Fine. I’ll go feed the livestock.”
He closed the refrigerator door. “No, wait. I’ll go with you.”
She didn’t look relieved. In fact, she looked kind of irritated. “Hey, slow down,” he called.
“The steers are hungry, Mr. Beringer. I don’t like to make them wait.”
“And here I thought ranchers ate hearty breakfasts.”
“You’re not a rancher, Mr. Beringer.” And her unspoken words were that he’d never be.
Scott