Page 21 of My Cowboy Trouble (The Cowboy Romantic Comedies #1)

"It's not that simple."

"It could be. "

She pulls back, shaking her head. "I have a life in New York. A business. An apartment. Friends."

"You have a life here too."

"For nineteen more days."

"Stop counting."

"I can't. If I stop counting, I might forget this has an expiration date. And then when it ends..." She trails off, but I can fill in the blanks.

When it ends, it'll destroy her. Destroy all of us.

Pepper nudges Kenzie again, more insistently. "Okay, okay, I get the message, hungry girl. I get it. Breakfast time." Kenzie laughs shakily, pulling away to grab the feed bucket. "You're as demanding as the boys."

"We're not demanding. We're assertive."

"You're something, all right."

As she feeds Pepper, I watch her and realize this is it—this is what I want.

Not just the sex, though that's fantastic.

Not just the banter, though I live for our verbal sparring.

But this: quiet mornings in the barn, comfortable silence, the easy intimacy of shared space, the way she fits into our lives like she was always meant to be here.

I want Kenzie Rhodes to stay.

And that terrifies me more than anything has in years.

We're sitting on the fence watching the sun climb higher, sharing coffee from a thermos she brought.

It's still terrible ranch coffee, but somehow it tastes a little better when I'm drinking it with her.

The morning is warming up, promising another scorching day, but right now it's perfect—cool enough to be comfortable, warm enough to appreciate the sun.

"This is nice," she says, leaning against me slightly. "Peaceful."

"Don't let Gavin hear you say that. He'll take it as a challenge to make things chaotic."

"Gavin makes everything chaotic. It's his superpower."

"What's mine?"

She considers this, taking another sip of coffee. "You make people feel safe while simultaneously making them question everything they thought they knew about themselves."

"That's very specific."

"That's very you." She turns to look at me. "How did you really end up here?"

"I told you. Trent's dad took me in."

"That's the ending. What's the beginning? What's the middle? What's the story you don't tell people?"

I consider lying, giving her the sanitized version I usually tell. The one where I'm just another hard-luck kid who caught a break. But something about the morning, about her presence, about the way she's looking at me like I matter, like my story matters, makes me tell the truth.

"My mom died when I was eight. Overdose.

Heroin, they think, though the coroner said there was a whole cocktail of shit in her system.

" The words come out flat, practiced, like I'm reading from a report.

Because that's how I learned them—from a report I stole from my social worker when I was twelve.

"Jesus, Asher."

"They found me trying to make her wake up for three days before a neighbor called it in. I'd been bringing her water, talking to her, telling her about the cartoons I was watching. I thought she was just sleeping really hard."

Kenzie's hand finds mine, squeezing tight.

"Foster care after that. Twelve homes in seven years."

"Twelve?"

"I became a difficult kid. Too smart for my own good, too angry at the world, too broken to let anyone fix me.

I'd get comfortable somewhere and then do something to get myself moved.

Break things. Start fights. Run away. Self-sabotage, the therapists called it.

I called it getting out before they could throw me out. "

"That must have been lonely."

"It was survival. Don't get attached, don't get hurt. Simple math." I laugh, but it's bitter. "Except kids aren't supposed to think like that. Normal kids believe in second chances and happy endings and families that actually want them."

She doesn't say anything, just squeezes my hand tighter. Her thumb traces circles on my palm, grounding me in the present instead of the past.

"The last family was actually decent. The Johnsons.

Mark and Linda. They had two biological kids and me.

Treated me the same as their own, even when I was an absolute shit to them.

They wanted to adopt me, but I was fifteen and convinced I knew everything.

Convinced they'd eventually see what everyone else saw—that I was too damaged, too much work, not worth the effort. "

"What did you do?"

"Ran away. Stole Mark’s truck and two hundred dollars from Linda's purse. Made it all the way here before the truck died. Trent's dad found me sleeping in this barn, half frozen and too proud to admit I was scared."

"What did he do?"

"Made me breakfast. Didn't ask questions.

Didn't call the cops, even though he knew the truck was stolen.

Just said if I was going to sleep in his barn, I might as well work for the privilege.

That turned into a week, then a month. He called the Johnsons, worked something out.

They didn't press charges. Even sent my stuff. "

"That was kind of them."

"It was more than I deserved." I stare out at the pasture, watching the cattle start their slow morning movement.

"John—Trent's dad—he never tried to be my father.

Never pushed. Never asked about my mom or why I ran.

Just gave me space to exist and work to keep me busy.

Taught me about ranching, about hard work, about being a man. Saved my life, really."

"Do you ever wonder what happened to the Johnsons?"

"I know what happened. They send Christmas cards every year. Their biological daughter just had a baby. They named him after me." I laugh, but it's shaky. "Asher Johnson-Smith. Poor kid."

"That's incredible."

"That's guilt. They think they failed me."

"Did they?"

"No. Hell no. I failed myself. I failed them. But I was fifteen and stupid and scared of being happy." I look at her, really look at her, memorizing her face in the morning light. "Sometimes I still am."

A slight smile crosses her lips. "Well. Are you seriously trying to win my sympathy with a tragic backstory right now? Because it's working, and I'm mad about it." She squeezes my hand, the perfect balance to her well-timed snark.

I laugh. "Is it working?"

"Annoyingly well. I'm practically swooning over here."

"Good to know for future reference."

"Don't push it." But she's smiling now, and the heavy weight of my past seems lighter somehow. "What else should I know about the mysterious Asher Holt? Scared of being happy?"

"Scared of wanting things I can't keep." The words hang between us, heavy with meaning. "Scared of believing in something just to have it ripped away. Scared of being left behind again."

She's quiet for a moment, then, "Well, this is either the most elaborate seduction technique ever, or you're actually being vulnerable with me. Either way, it's irritatingly effective."

"Can't it be both?"

"Knowing you? Probably." She turns to face me fully, pulling one leg up on the fence. "Is that what I am? Something you can't keep?"

"Aren't you?"

"I don't know anymore." She looks out over the pasture, the cattle shadows long in the morning light. "Three weeks ago, I had a plan. Do my thirty days, sell the ranch, make a fuck-load of money, and go back to my life. Simple. Clean. No complications."

"And now?"

"Now I can't imagine going back to that life.

To a city where you can hear your neighbors fighting through paper-thin walls.

To subway commutes where everyone avoids eye contact like human connection is contagious.

To clients who think they're God's gift to marketing and treat everyone else like servants.

I can't imagine waking up without seeing mountains.

Without hearing Gavin singing off-key in the shower—and he's always off-key, have you noticed?

Or watching Trent pretend he's not a complete softie with the animals when he thinks no one's looking. Without..."

"Without what?"

"Without you making me feel like I'm more than just a city girl playing dress-up. Without you looking at me like I'm worth knowing. Worth keeping."

I turn her face toward me, thumb brushing her cheekbone. "You are more. You're way more, Kenzie."

"Am I? Because yesterday, half the town was calling me a gold-digging whore."

"Yesterday half the town proved they're idiots with nothing better to do than judge people they're jealous of."

"What are they jealous of?"

"You. Your freedom. Your choices. The fact that you walked in here and shook everything up without even trying." I lean closer. "The fact that you've got three men looking at you like you hung the moon."

"Do you? Look at me like that?"

"Every damn day. From the moment you stepped out of that rental car looking like you'd rather be anywhere else, to right now, sitting here with hay in your hair and dirt on your face, looking like you finally found home."

She kisses me then, soft and sweet, nothing like the desperate heat we've shared before. This is different. This is dangerous. This is feelings neither of us are ready to name.

When we pull apart, she's smiling but her eyes are sad. "Nineteen days."

"Stop counting."

"I can't. If I stop counting, I might forget this has an expiration date."

"Everything has an expiration date. Doesn't mean we can't enjoy it while it lasts."

"Is that your philosophy? Enjoy it while it lasts?"

"No." I jump down from the fence and offer her my hand. "My philosophy is, take what you want and worry about consequences later."

"That's a terrible philosophy."

"It's worked so far." I help her down, keeping her close, feeling her body warm against mine. "Got me you, didn't it?"

"For now."

"Then I'll take now." I kiss her again, harder this time, like I can convince her to stay if I just want it enough. Like I can change her mind with my mouth and my hands and my desperate need to keep her here. "Come on. We've got a gate to fix."

"We do?"

"We do now."