hurriedly, testing the jack to make
sure he had it firmly in place. He couldn’t
afford having the truck slip when he was
underneath it. Still, his eyes kept being
drawn to Rose.
The rain came hard and fast. He should
have been paying closer attention to the
job, but instead, there he was, his hand on
the sun-heated metal of the truck, watching
Rose. The first wave of wet hit, the drops
pinging against the pickup and stinging his
skin. Wiping an arm over his forehead, he
grabbed his hat from the side mirror and
jammed it on.
Rose didn’t seem to mind the wetness at
all. The rain slicked the flimsy material of
her tank top and shorts against her skin,
and there was no way he could pay
attention to the damned tire now. She was
literally dancing in the rain, her hair
slicked against the sides of her face. Those
clothes of hers weren’t decent anymore.
She was soaked to the skin, every curve
and shadow on display. Just for him. A
fierce urge to possess her, then and there,
lit him up.
Fuck . He worked the tire iron with a
vengeance, forcing the stubborn lug nuts
free, then jacking the truck up with slow,
even pumps. He pulled the flat tire off and
set it aside.
After finally getting the new tire on and
secured, he lowered the truck and finished
tightening the nuts. Rose was still dancing,
a slow, sensual weave that tempted him to
join her. Instead, he tossed the jack back
into the truck bed along with the flat tire.
Not too much to salvage there, but a man
could hope.
His gaze fixed on Rose again, taking in
her slender, sensuous form. The hardest
damn thing he’d ever done was having her
in his house and keeping his hands off her.
He’d offered to look out for her, let her
stay at the ranch as long as she liked, but
she insisted on standing on her own feisty
two feet, taking over a lot of the cooking
and cleaning from the happy housekeeper,
all the while revisiting Auntie Dee’s to
straighten up the place, reviewing her
estimates, calling around for better bids,
and scrutinizing the Help Wanted listings
for architect jobs that simply didn’t exist in
Lonesome. That stubbornness exasperated
and awed him at the same time. Rose had
always been game, always up for a
challenge. That was something special.
She was special.
The rain soaked her tank top, plastering
the thin fabric against her breasts. As far as
he could tell, she was wearing a bra—
barely. The delicate little lace cups were
more perch than ledge, though, the rain
outlining every flourish and curlicue in the
fabric that barely contained her. It was one
hell of a view.
She danced toward him, looking so
damned happy and he had no idea why.
Hell, he should have told her the truth
about her place when he’d had the chance.
Time to face the truth himself, too. He
wanted Rose. Badly.
When he reached out to her, she didn’t
hesitate, just put her fingers in his as if
accepting his invitation to waltz. He tugged
her closer and caught her, depositing her
on his thigh.
“Cabe! This is . . . unexpected,” she
gasped. Her fingers curled into the soft
cotton of his T-shirt, clutching his
shoulders. She was as off-balance as he
was. Hell, yeah .
“You wanted to help,” he pointed out
gruffly. “This works for me.”
“Cabe . . .” She watched him, laughing a
little, but he didn’t miss the note of
uncertainty there. She didn’t know what he
wanted. Well, he planned to show her.
And then he’d make her want it, too.
Wrapping a hand around the back of her
neck, he gently urged her face closer to his.
“How is . . . this . . . helping?” she
whispered.
“You have no idea.” His mouth formed
the words against hers. Her lips tasted like
the strawberry lip gloss she’d used. Sweet
and soft and slick. He rubbed his thumb
over those lips, wanting more. “But I’ll
show you, Rose.”
She leaned in to his touch, and he
wondered if she realized what she was
doing. She
sure he had it firmly in place. He couldn’t
afford having the truck slip when he was
underneath it. Still, his eyes kept being
drawn to Rose.
The rain came hard and fast. He should
have been paying closer attention to the
job, but instead, there he was, his hand on
the sun-heated metal of the truck, watching
Rose. The first wave of wet hit, the drops
pinging against the pickup and stinging his
skin. Wiping an arm over his forehead, he
grabbed his hat from the side mirror and
jammed it on.
Rose didn’t seem to mind the wetness at
all. The rain slicked the flimsy material of
her tank top and shorts against her skin,
and there was no way he could pay
attention to the damned tire now. She was
literally dancing in the rain, her hair
slicked against the sides of her face. Those
clothes of hers weren’t decent anymore.
She was soaked to the skin, every curve
and shadow on display. Just for him. A
fierce urge to possess her, then and there,
lit him up.
Fuck . He worked the tire iron with a
vengeance, forcing the stubborn lug nuts
free, then jacking the truck up with slow,
even pumps. He pulled the flat tire off and
set it aside.
After finally getting the new tire on and
secured, he lowered the truck and finished
tightening the nuts. Rose was still dancing,
a slow, sensual weave that tempted him to
join her. Instead, he tossed the jack back
into the truck bed along with the flat tire.
Not too much to salvage there, but a man
could hope.
His gaze fixed on Rose again, taking in
her slender, sensuous form. The hardest
damn thing he’d ever done was having her
in his house and keeping his hands off her.
He’d offered to look out for her, let her
stay at the ranch as long as she liked, but
she insisted on standing on her own feisty
two feet, taking over a lot of the cooking
and cleaning from the happy housekeeper,
all the while revisiting Auntie Dee’s to
straighten up the place, reviewing her
estimates, calling around for better bids,
and scrutinizing the Help Wanted listings
for architect jobs that simply didn’t exist in
Lonesome. That stubbornness exasperated
and awed him at the same time. Rose had
always been game, always up for a
challenge. That was something special.
She was special.
The rain soaked her tank top, plastering
the thin fabric against her breasts. As far as
he could tell, she was wearing a bra—
barely. The delicate little lace cups were
more perch than ledge, though, the rain
outlining every flourish and curlicue in the
fabric that barely contained her. It was one
hell of a view.
She danced toward him, looking so
damned happy and he had no idea why.
Hell, he should have told her the truth
about her place when he’d had the chance.
Time to face the truth himself, too. He
wanted Rose. Badly.
When he reached out to her, she didn’t
hesitate, just put her fingers in his as if
accepting his invitation to waltz. He tugged
her closer and caught her, depositing her
on his thigh.
“Cabe! This is . . . unexpected,” she
gasped. Her fingers curled into the soft
cotton of his T-shirt, clutching his
shoulders. She was as off-balance as he
was. Hell, yeah .
“You wanted to help,” he pointed out
gruffly. “This works for me.”
“Cabe . . .” She watched him, laughing a
little, but he didn’t miss the note of
uncertainty there. She didn’t know what he
wanted. Well, he planned to show her.
And then he’d make her want it, too.
Wrapping a hand around the back of her
neck, he gently urged her face closer to his.
“How is . . . this . . . helping?” she
whispered.
“You have no idea.” His mouth formed
the words against hers. Her lips tasted like
the strawberry lip gloss she’d used. Sweet
and soft and slick. He rubbed his thumb
over those lips, wanting more. “But I’ll
show you, Rose.”
She leaned in to his touch, and he
wondered if she realized what she was
doing. She
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