Page 46 of 11 Cowboys

“How did you know that was me?”

I arch a brow. “You need a hand?”

His mouth pulls into a flat line. “You offering?”

“Sure.”

“Can you peel?” he asks.

“I’m notuseless,Lennon.”

“That isn’t a yes.”

Before I can fire back, the door groans again, and Jaxon steps in. He peels off his gloves and tosses them on the counter without a greeting. His shirt is clinging to him in ways I shouldn’t notice. But I do, and so does every hormone I’ve ever had.

“Conway said to help in the kitchen,” he mutters. “So I’m here.”

It’s possibly the most words I’ve heard from him in two days.

I freeze at the stove, then recover. “We’re honored.”

Jaxon gives a small huff that might be a laugh, but it ends as fast as it came. His eyes don’t meet mine. They barely ever do. He washes his hands at the sink as I stare at his broad back and his messy dark hair that curls damply around his neck, itching to feel if it’s as soft as it looks.

What would he do if I stroked his neck and ran my fingers through his hair? Would he like that kind of touch or find it a waste of time? He looks like a man who goes straight to the fucking and still handles his lover’s business fully and without compromise. I’m wet thinking about his rough hands and his ass that rounds out his jeans perfectly.

Lennon moves methodically, already pulling flour, sugar, and yeast from the pantry. I stand awkwardly between them, feeling the weight of two different energies: Lennon’s rigid competence and Jaxon’s dark, heavy stillness.

Lennon passes me laden down with ingredients, his handsome face drawn with tension, probably from doing something he’s not proficient at. “You can start peeling potatoes.”

I want to say, yes sir, to be sassy, but the truth is, his energy does something fluttery to me, like I can imagine him reading out a list of things he wants me to do to him: unbutton my pants, take out my cock, kiss the tip, lick it all the way down, take it in your throat, gag on it, swallow it all down. I bet he’d follow all of that up with a gruff-sounding ‘good girl.’

I sneak a look at his profile from the corner of my eye, and my toes curl in my socks.

Jaxon finds me a peeler and places it in my palm. Our fingers brush. Static shoots straight through my arm like I touched a live wire. I don’t flinch, but I feel the heat rising up my spine and spilling lower between my thighs.

The three of us move around the kitchen like magnets, refusing to fully connect. Lennon measures flour with a robotic focus. Jaxon chops like the vegetables insulted his ancestors. I peel potatoes with unnecessary tension, humming to fill the silence.

The two of them barely speak, and I feel like the awkward human buffer keeping them from silently combusting. They’re cousins. Shouldn’t cousins have more to say to each other?

“Does it kill you both to talk?” I tease, tossing a peeled potato into the bowl.

Lennon doesn’t look up. “Talking wastes time and distracts.”

Jaxon pauses long enough to flick those dark, unreadable eyes to mine. “Some things are better left unsaid.”

The weight of his dark gaze lingers a beat too long. My stomach flips unexpectedly, and I snap my attention back to the cutting board.

I grab the flour tin to distract myself, considering making another batch of my crowd-pleasing brownies, and turn to dump it into the mixer, only to misjudge the angle. A cloud of white explodes across the counter and onto Jaxon’s black shirt.

I gasp. “Oh my God.”

Jaxon freezes. White dust clings to his chest, arms, and hair. The glare he levels at me could peel paint, and he does that sexy, jaw-ticking thing that Channing Tatum has perfected to wet even the driest of panties.

For a terrifying heartbeat, I think he’s going to explode. But then he groans in disgust, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

“You two are children,” Lennon mutters.

I face him, lowering my chin and widening my eyes. “Sorry, Daddy,” I croon, and the way he falters is hilarious.