Rylan’s breath ran away as the back of his hand brushed over her collarbone. A shiver raced over her body, warm and sweet. She leaned away from him. “Excuse me?”
He shrugged, a slow smile crossing his face at her reaction. “That’s okay. Ornery is good.”
Her lips parted to sling an insult, but she refrained. No sense in wasting perfectly good angst on a drunk who wouldn’t remember it in five seconds. “I’ll play along.
Why
is that good?”
Cole took a slo
w breath, his eyes darkening. “Because you’re pretty. I like pretty. But I don’t like ornery. So we should be just fine.” He nodded as though he’d just made a deal with himself and was quite pleased about it. Before she could even think of a response, he shoved his beer away, untouched, and moved from the bar.
“Let’s go.” He dug in his pocket, produced a key and some cash. He threw the cash on the bar and turned to walk away. Still mulling over his words, Rylan grabbed his wrist on instinct.
“You’re not driving.” She put her hand out for his keys.
He scoffed and shook his head, words a bit slurred. “Boss, remember?”
Rylan pursed her lips. “I can see the headlines now:
Paint River Owner Cole Haywood Kills Employee in Alcohol-Related Crash
. Goes to, oh, I don’t know,
prison
for vehicular manslaughter.” Rylan swallowed hard. Drunk driving was something she’d had enough of over the years—more than. The offense hadn’t just been a daily part of her life as a police officer; it had ripped through her personal life like a meat grinder on steroids.
His nostrils flared like he was trying to hold back a laugh. “You’re not driving my truck.”
Since first impressions had already gone right out the window, she was okay with expressing herself. If it got her fired, so what? She’d figure something out. Let life happen, right?
She gave a resolute nod. “That’s fine. I don’t need this job that bad. Thanks anyway, Mr. Haywood.” Rylan turned back where the short bartender was watching her things. There was no backup plan, but sleeping in the alley was preferable to getting into a truck with him driving. She’d made it four steps when Cole’s strong hand gripped her shoulder. Shocks raced down her spine as his warm fingers pressed into her flesh.
“Dammit, woman. Fine.” He spun her around fast. She tipped forward right into him. Her heart short-circuited, her breath stalled in the single moment her chest made contact with his. With a gasp, she put her palms on his hard body and shoved herself back. He grabbed her left wrist with one hand and flipped it over. His thumb made a soft back-and-forth sweep over the pulse point before he dropped a set of keys into her palm with the other.
His eyes were blocked by a shadow cast by the brim of his hat, but the grin on his lips was perfectly clear. A soft, rapid pounding vibrated against Rylan’s hand. She looked down—her right palm was still on his chest. His heart was racing, his body heat strong under her touch. Eyes wide, she jerked away, her skin feeling immediately empty at the loss of his heat. Despite his inebriation, his expression was bland.
“No adjusting the seat. No changing the radio station. And no talking.” He broke away from her and walked toward the door. Rylan spun to hurry after his long strides. Grabbing her bag from the barstool, she reached in her pocket for cash to pay for the beer she hadn’t drunk.
The bartender shook his head. “Consider it a Welcome-to-Hell gift.”
Chapter Two
Cole, as it turned out, was about as easy on the ears as he was on the eyes. He didn’t say more than necessary on the drive to Paint River and spent the majority of it slumped in the seat with his hat pulled down. He didn’t even react when she adjusted the seat to account for her much-shorter legs and changed the static-filled radio station for background music.
Rylan drove slowly in the star-dotted darkness, sure a deer would dart out at any moment, especially after paved road turned into two-lane dirt and led her far from civilization. Rylan was almost afraid for her life. If Cole Haywood turned out to be a murderer, she was screwed, and the sweat on her palms and itch of her neck proved her subconscious was considering it. Not that he’d given any indication that he would harm her. Unless she counted the rank scent of beer rolling off him as potential poison.
He’d been giving her short directions—“Turn here” and “Left at next sign”—but beyond that, nothing. She hadn’t attempted to make conversation since he kept drifting off. A sober-up nap was exactly what he needed. That and a long, hot shower to peel the layer of cigar smoke off him. Rylan gave Cole a sidelong glance. Underneath the bar smell were notes of pine and cedar, and some kind of fresh, clean deodorant. In a way, it was sexy and heady…and not helping her concentration one bit.
Rylan rolled the window down to push the scents out and keep her sleep-deprived senses alert. Concentrating on the drive helped push away her nonsensical physical reactions to him earlier. She needed sleep, food, and strong coffee, and in the morning, she’d be much better able to interact with Cole Haywood as she did most people: without emotion and as minimally as possible.
A fork in the road appeared in the headlights. Cole was snoring softly. Rylan flicked his leg, and he jerked. “Left or right?”
He startled just a touch, then gave an annoyed sigh. “Right.” His hat was pulled over his face, his long body languid in the seat. “Just keep right. It’ll take you to the main gate.”
The gate was a huge arch of timber beams supporting a long, rectangular sign that read
Paint River Ranch, Est. 1878
. Rylan drove through the gate and down a long, curving drive. Several buildings made hulking shadows on both sides until the main house, a lumbering post-and-beam creation, stretched out before them. A covered deck wrapped around one side, tiny white lights twined around the deck beams. Railroad lanterns glowed softly on the left side of each step going up. A stone chimney and tall, peaked windows framed by chinked logs were the sum of what she could see in the evening light. But even that little bit took her breath away. Maybe this was just what she needed after all.
Rylan parked and slid out of the truck, taking a step back just to take it all in. Expectations or not, this was well beyond anything her brain could have cooked up. This trip now had two things going for it: one sexy as hell, albeit drunk, cowboy, and one beyond-amazing ranch house. Big-ass score.
Cole slid out with a groan, rubbed his belly, wandered to the porch, and disappeared into the house before she could grab her bag from the backseat. Cowboys and chivalry and all that? A fat lie. Rylan lugged her duffel and walked tentatively to the stairs. She paused at the door, feeling that it was too brazen to simply walk in as Cole had. This was his home, and she was just the help—the new help, who had no idea who or where anyone was.
She knocked. Once. Twice. No one came to the door. Antsy now, she knocked again, looking for a doorbell or something that someone might actually hear in the massive house, when the door flew open.
“For Chrissake, just come in!” Cole’s shirtless body took up the entire entrance. His muscled torso gleamed in the cast of light and shadow from inside. Dark hair curled over his chest, narrowing down the length of cut-and-sculpted abs. Rylan swallowed hard and looked away. The flutters in her belly were sudden and unwelcome. Half blocking the door, Cole made no further attempt to get out of the way, forcing her to squeeze between his naked chest and the doorframe to get in. She was tempted to quietly jab him in the gut with her elbow as she passed, on principle.
She barely had time to take in her surroundings as he stomped off, making her hurry to keep up. He was remarkably steady considering how unsteady he’d been at the bar. That must have been one hell of a power nap on the ride home.
The entryway spilled into an open floor plan—they passed a dining room, living room, and went down a hallway. A whitewashed plank door sat at the end of the hall. Cole pushed in the door and gave a grand wave of his arm.
“Your bedroom. It has a bathroom, and…whatever. I’ll tell Ma you’re here in the morning. No more banging. On
anything
.” He raised his eyebrows expectantly, like he wasn’t sure she understood. Rylan’s gaze wandered to the sprawling curls covering his chest. They spread nicely over his pectorals, down the narrow strip of tanned skin along his ribcage, and over his—
Jesus. What the fuckity-fuck was wrong with her? She clenched her eyes. “Got it. No banging.”
He turned, showing off a strongly muscled back. A tattoo in gray ink on his right shoulder blade caught her eye. She shifted a little to see. The tattoo spelled out “Birdie” in flowing block text, the tail of the
e
looping to connect to a small sparrow in flight. The ink was almost more masculine-beautiful than his perfect ass hugged by worn Wranglers. A little sigh puffed out between her lips as she wondered who Birdie was.
“’Night,” he called before he pulled her door shut.
Rylan let out a hard breath. She was deflated, completely done. Grateful for privacy, she slid the duffel bag off her shoulder and froze. The room was softly lit with an antique brass lantern on the bedside table. The walls were all planks—barn board, she guessed, like the door. But these were bathed in a turquoise patina, not unlike Cole’s eyes, with a honey-cream trim and white plank ceiling. The headboard was an old garden gate, resplendent with chipped white paint showing the black metal beneath and huge cast rosettes at the corners. She sat on the quilt-covered bed and ran her hands over the intricate hand-stitching that swirled over the boldly colored wedding-ring pattern. The room was perfect, serene. Quiet and comfortable and so unlike the rigid, suffocating, empty home she’d left behind. Rylan lay back and stared at the ceiling, smiling for the first time in what felt like forever.
…
“You better knock on that door and wake her ass up,” Cole grumbled as he ran a hand over his face. Good thing his younger brother Tucker had woken him up or he’d have overslept—something he definitely didn’t have time for today, or any day for that matter. Alcohol never had been his friend. The pounding in his head, nausea in his gut, and fatigue in his bones were beating him ferociously as a reminder.
Tucker scoffed. “Hell no. You do it. You know how chicks are when you get them up too early.”
“She’s the help. She’s supposed to be up early.” It was almost 6:00 a.m., a touch later than he was used to getting up but not too early to get the housekeeper started. The details of last night were a bit fuzzy, but he was pretty sure he hadn’t told her what time they’d be starting. He’d barely remembered which guest bedroom to put her in. Never mind the details.
“Why the hell am I getting stuck with this?” Tucker crossed his massive arms and pouted, a move that might have worked when they were eight. All it did now was enrage Cole’s foul mood even more.
“Because I have paperwork to do
after
I check fence, because I already made plans with Jaxon to fix a window in the training arena, and because you’re pissing me off!”
“I hate waking chicks up.” Tucker uncrossed his arms and prepared to knock, a grimace on his freshly shaved face.
“Have you ever stayed long enough to wake a woman in the morning?” Cole narrowed his eyes.
Tucker winked and grinned, knocking Cole in the shoulder with a fist. “You make me sound like a pump and dump.”
Cole held back a smile. “That’s because you are.”
Tucker rolled his eyes. “Not nice, big brother.”
Cole smiled despite himself. Since their father’s unexpected death last year, they were still working on finding their stride in running the ranch without his strict, carefully planned control. Cole had assumed his father’s role as general manager for both the tourist and ranching operations; Tucker took on managing the cattle. And though they were satisfied to be out from under Cooper Haywood’s thumb, sometimes it got a little tense and hectic. He and Tucker butted heads over just about everything, yet Cole could always count on Tucker to lighten the mood.
Right now, he only wanted to count on Tucker to take this woman off his hands. “Knock on Rhianna’s door.”
The door cracked open, startling them both. “It’s Rylan, actually. And I’ve been up since four so no problem there.”
Tucker took a step back as the door swung wider and a long-legged, deliciously full-in-the-hip woman stepped out. Cole did a double take, his scalp exploding in little tingles. Was this the same chick from last night? Her brown hair was piled high in some sort of messy bun. She had no makeup on, her heavily lashed gray eyes bright. And amused.
Cole groaned—she’d heard every word.
Tucker gave Cole a questioning look. “Damn, Cole, you didn’t say she was—”
Rylan scratched beside her eye with one finger, observing them both. Cole looked from Rylan to Tucker, recalling how unflinchingly she had stood up to him last night. She’d been one provocation away from turning into a little hellcat, or at least, that’s how his soggy brain remembered it. Right now she looked a little uncomfortable.
Her brows arched. “Was what?” Her high, round cheekbones blossomed pink, highlighting the sensual lines of her face.
“How old are you?” Tucker burst out. “I was expecting, you know, someone older. Not…”
Rylan laughed, a soft sound that padded the ache in Cole’s head as she shook Tucker’s hand. He watched the exchange, trying like hell to remember all of their meeting last night, but it was a blur. Her dark-brown hair had floated around her shoulders, gleaming like mink in the lights. He remembered wanting to touch it—wait, he had touched it, and it was smooth and silky. His fingers itched in response to the memory. Cole balled a fist before he did something stupid like reach out and pet her. He recalled asking her if she was coming on to him, too, and he cursed softly. Drinking to drown emotions was never a good idea, and last night was no exception.
Rylan looked pointedly at him, as if she was remembering things of her own. Cole’s face tingled.
“I’m thirty until December,” she said. “Then I’ll be a little closer to grandma age.”
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, pulling Cole’s attention back to the full curve of her hips and the length of her legs. Her jeans looked old and worn, and outlined her body just enough to hint at an hourglass figure that looked as firm as it was curvy. He wished she’d uncross her arms so he could see all of her.
All of Rylan.
The hired help.
What the hell was he doing? He looked away, but not before his libido decided to wake up and do sit-ups against the front of his jeans. She was a pretty, new staff member. No big deal. He’d already been down that road, and that had turned into a costly mistake. Thanks to his mess, the ranch now had a written rule against fraternizing with employees—an addition to the staff handbook he wasn’t proud to have spearheaded by his failed example. In an uncouth way, it had become a teasing-but-not-so-much joke. Whenever Tucker got that twinkle in his eye over an attractive new employee, Cole would slap him on the chest and yell, “Handbook!” It usually resulted in getting punched and listening to Tucker bitch, but there had been no other disasters since.
Cole checked his watch. “Tucker is going to show you around.”
Rylan nodded, her eyes catching his for just a second before he turned to leave. He brushed off a breathless little feeling that welled at the weight of her gaze. Damned if he’d be falling for that shit again anytime soon.