Page 3 of My Cowboy Trouble (The Cowboy Romantic Comedies #1)

GAVIN

Five a.m. comes way too fucking early when you've been up half the night thinking about legs that go on for miles and a mouth that could probably cut glass with its sass.

Not that I'm thinking about the city princess. Much.

I'm in the kitchen making coffee—real coffee, the kind that could strip paint off a barn—when she stumbles in looking like a beauty queen after a three-day bender. Hair doing that sexy bedhead thing, mascara smudged under her eyes, and wearing pajama shorts that should be illegal.

"Coffee," she croaks, making grabby hands at my mug. "Need coffee."

"Morning, sunshine." I hold my mug out of reach because I'm not that nice. "Sleep well? "

She glares at me through squinted eyes. "Your rooster is Satan incarnate. He started crowing at four. FOUR."

"Sir Clucks-a-Lot likes to get an early start." I take a long, deliberate sip of my coffee, watching her track the movement like a starving woman eyeing a steak. "There's a pot on the stove."

She practically lunges for it, pouring herself a mug and taking a huge gulp before her entire face scrunches up and she gags. "What the hell is this? Motor oil?"

"Cowboy coffee. It'll put hair on your chest."

"I don't want hair on my chest." She takes another sip anyway, probably because she needs the caffeine more than she needs her taste buds. "I want a vanilla latte with oat milk and two pumps of caramel."

"Fresh out of pumps. But Asher might have some oat milk hidden somewhere. He's got a lactose thing."

"I don't have a lactose thing, Gav," Asher says, walking in right on cue because his timing is always annoyingly perfect. "I have refined taste buds."

He's already dressed and looking like he stepped out of a fashion ad, which is just wrong at this hour. He takes one look at Kenzie's pajama situation and his eyes do that thing where he's mentally removing what little clothing she's got on.

"Morning, beautiful. Rough night?" he asks.

"Your demon rooster?—"

" Our demon rooster," I correct. "You own him now, remember?"

She flips me off, which just makes me grin wider. "Where's drill sergeant Trent? I expected him to bang on my door with a megaphone.”

"He's already out with the cattle," Asher says, pouring himself coffee. "Said to tell you that you're late and to meet him at the barn in ten minutes."

"But it's only five-fifteen!"

"Ranch time runs different, darlin'," I tell her. "Ten minutes means five, five means now, and now means you're already fucked."

She chugs the rest of her coffee like it's a shot of tequila, slams the mug down, and storms toward the door. "This is insane. You're all insane. This whole place is?—"

She stops dead in the doorway. Because Trent's standing there, six-foot-three-inches of disapproval, looking at Kenzie's bare legs like they personally offend him.

"You're late," he says. "And you're not dressed."

"I was just?—"

"Barn. Five minutes. Dressed." He turns and walks away, but not before I catch him taking one more look at those legs.

Interesting.

Kenzie makes a noise that's somewhere between a growl and a whimper, then disappears upstairs. The sound of stomping and creative cursing filters down through the ceiling.

"She's not gonna last the week," Asher says, smiling. "Shame. She's nice to look at."

"Eh, I don’t know. She's tougher than she looks." I don't know why I defend her. Maybe because I recognize a fighter when I see one. Or maybe because I'd love to see Trent eat his know-it-all words.

"Want to make it interesting?" Asher pulls out his ever-present deck of cards. "Hundred bucks says she's gone by Friday."

"We already got a bet going, man," I say.

He shrugs. "Yeah, but we know how that one's gonna end. She'll be gone before thirty days. But I'm saying she'll be gone this week. The skid marks her little Ford rental car leaves behind will be legendary. Dude, we'll be laughing about this for years to come."

Christ, we're dicks. "You're on." We shake on it, and I head out to watch the show.

By the time I get to the barn, Trent's got Kenzie standing in front of a wheelbarrow full of horse shit, explaining the finer points of stall mucking like it's rocket science.

She's changed into jeans that hug her ass like they were painted on and a tank top that's already got sweat stains. Her fancy boots—they have fucking fringe on them—are planted in the dirt like she's trying to grow roots .

"You want to get under it," Trent's saying, demonstrating with a pitchfork. "Scoop and toss. It's all in the wrist."

"That's what she said," I call out, because someone has to lighten the mood.

Kenzie snorts out a laugh before she can stop herself. Trent's jaw tightens.

"Gavin, don't you have horses to exercise?"

"They can wait. This is more entertaining."

Kenzie picks up a pitchfork like it might bite her, attempts Trent's "scoop and toss" motion, and sends a chunk of manure flying. Right onto Trent's boots.

"Sorry! Shit, I mean—sorry about the shit on your?—"

"Just keep practicing," Trent says through gritted teeth, looking like he's praying for patience. Or planning a murder. "I'll be back in an hour to check your progress."

He stalks off, probably to find something to punch, leaving me with a red-faced city girl holding a pitchfork like a weapon.

"He hates me," she says.

"Nah. That's just his face. You should see him when he's really pissed."

She attacks the stall with newfound determination, flinging shit around like she's got a personal vendetta against it. Which, knowing Trent, she probably does.

That's when Sir Clucks-a-Lot decides to make his morning rounds .

The rooster struts into the barn like he owns it—which, let's be honest, he kind of does—and fixes his one good eye on Kenzie. She freezes mid-scoop.

"Nice rooster," she says slowly. "Good rooster. Remember me? I'm your owner now. That means you have to be nice to me."

Sir Clucks cocks his head, considers this, then charges.

Kenzie shrieks and runs behind me, using me as a human shield. "Make him stop!"

"He doesn't stop for anyone." But I grab a feed bucket and bang it against the wall. Sir Clucks pauses, gives me a look that promises retribution, then struts off to terrorize Billy and whatever early morning mayhem he's causing.

Kenzie's still pressed against my back, her hands fisted in my shirt. "That thing is a menace."

"He's just testing you." I turn around, which puts us way too close. Close enough to see the gold flecks in her brown eyes. Close enough to smell her shampoo under the barn stench. "Everything here's gonna test you, princess."

"Stop calling me princess."

"Would you prefer sweetheart? Darlin'? Sugar tits?"

She shoves me, but she's laughing. "How about Kenzie? Novel concept, I know."

"Kenzie it is." I step back before I do something stupid like kiss that smart mouth. "Better get back to work. Trent'll be back soon, and you've barely made a dent."

She looks at the stall, which still looks like a shit bomb went off, then at me. "Any tips?"

"Yeah. Don't think about what you're scooping. Maybe invest in some nose plugs. And think about cutting the fringe off those boots because they're about to be caked with all manner of nasty stuff."

An hour later, I find Kenzie at the corral, glaring at Sir Clucks-a-Lot through the fence like she's planning his demise. Naturally, she's got shit on her boots, hay in her hair, and a smudge of dirt across her cheek that shouldn't be as cute as it is.

"Plotting murder?"

She doesn't even look at me. "Plotting dinner. I'm thinking coq au vin. Or maybe just good old-fashioned fried chicken."

"Your aunt would rise from the grave if you touched her precious rooster."

"Then she should have trained him not to be an asshole." She finally turns to face me, and there's something different in her eyes. Determination, maybe. Or just pure stubbornness. "Trent says I failed the stall test."

"There's no test. He's just fucking with you."

"Yeah, well, two can play that game." She steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off her skin. "What's your deal, anyway? Why do you care if I stay or go?"

Good question. One I don't have an answer for. So I go with what I do best—deflection and flirting.

"Maybe I like watching you walk around in those jeans.

" I let my eyes travel down her body, slow and deliberate.

"Maybe I'm curious how long before you break.

Or maybe..." I lean in, crowding her against the fence.

"I just want to see what you're really made of when you stop pretending to be tougher than you are. "

Her breath catches, just for a second, before her chin comes up. "I'm not pretending anything."

"No?" I'm close enough now that she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. Close enough to kiss her if I wanted to. Which I do. "Then prove it. Last the week. Hell, last three days without running back to your fancy coffee and indoor plumbing."

"We have indoor plumbing."

"Barely."

She puts a hand on my chest, and for a second, I think she's going to push me away. Instead, she fists my shirt and pulls me even closer. "You want to know what I think?"

"Enlighten me."

"I think you're all talk. Big bad rodeo star who's probably never had a woman tell him no.

" Her thumb brushes over my chest, and fuck if that doesn't send heat straight to my dick.

"I think you're hoping I fail because if I don't, you might actually have to admit a city girl can handle your precious ranch. "

" Your ranch. You own it, remember?"

"Right. My ranch." She smiles, slow and dangerous. "Which means you work for me now."

The thought shouldn't be as hot as it is. But the idea of this princess giving me orders, making me work for it...

Yeah, I'm in trouble.

I step back before I do something stupid like bend her over the fence. "We'll see who's working for who, princess."

"It's Kenzie."

"Right. Kenzie." I tip my hat and start walking backward toward the barn. "Better go find Trent. Pretty sure he's got another impossible task lined up for you."

"Bring it on," she calls after me.

Fuck yeah. This is fun.

That afternoon, we're gathered in the barn like it's some kind of town meeting.

Word travels fast around here, and somehow Clara Mae has materialized with her gossip radar fully activated to get all the scoop she can.

She has an entire town to inform, even if she did show up here on the pretense of dropping off some animal feed.

"So this is the city girl," Clara Mae says, looking Kenzie up and down like she's livestock at auction. "Prettier than I expected. Smaller too. My money says she doesn't last the week."

"Your money's no good here, Clara Mae," I tell her. "This is between us and the princess."

"It's Kenzie," Princess says for the hundredth time, waving in our direction. "And I'm right here, you know. I can hear you talking about me."

"Oh, honey, if you can't handle us talking about you, you're definitely not going to survive," Clara Mae cackles. "These boys'll eat you alive. Especially that one." She points at me with one gnarled finger. "He's got a reputation."

"I'm sure Gavin does." Kenzie crosses her arms. "So are we making this official or what?"

Trent steps forward with an actual contract. Because of course he has a contract. "Terms are simple. You work the ranch for thirty days. Every day. No sick days, no vacation, no running back to town for a spa day."

"What if there's an emergency?"

"What kind of emergency?" Asher asks, shuffling his cards. He's always shuffling those damn cards.

"I don't know. Death in the family? Alien invasion? Zombie apocalypse?"

"In case of zombie apocalypse, the bet's off," I offer. "But anything short of that, you stay put."

She reads through the contract, which knowing Trent is probably legally bulletproof. "And if I win, you three admit publicly that you were wrong about me. And you have to do it at the town square dance."

"There's no town square dance," Trent says.

"Then at whatever passes for a social gathering around here."

"That'd be the Rusty Spur on Saturday nights," Clara Mae pipes up. "Karaoke night. You boys could sing her an apology. I suggest 'I Was Wrong' by Chris Stapleton."

"We're not singing," Trent says flatly.

"Then a public speech will do." Kenzie signs the contract with a flourish. "Thirty days, gentlemen. Hope you've been practicing your apologies."

Billy, who's been lurking in the corner this whole time, suddenly blurts out, "I think you can do it! You're like... really strong. And brave. And pretty. Really pretty."

The kid goes red as a tomato and flees the barn. Again.

"That boy needs to get laid," Clara Mae observes. "Maybe you could help him out, honey."

"Clara Mae!" Trent looks scandalized.

"What? I'm just saying, if she's going to be here thirty days, might as well make them interesting." She winks at Kenzie. "These three ain't so bad either, once you get past all the testosterone and bullshit."

"Noted," Kenzie says dryly. "Now if you'll excuse me, I apparently have more chores. Which start in..." She checks the list. "Negative five minutes. I'm already late."

She heads for the door, pauses, and looks back at us. " Oh, and boys? You might want to start writing those speeches. I don't lose."

She walks out, leaving us staring after her.

"I like her," Clara Mae announces. "She's got balls. Figuratively speaking."

"She's got something," Asher agrees, watching her go with an expression I don't like.

"She's got thirty days to prove it," Trent says, but even he's staring at the door she just walked through.

"Boys," Clara Mae says, heaving herself to her feet, "I think you might have bitten off more than you can chew with this one."

She's probably right. But as I watch Kenzie through the barn window, wrestling with a hay bale and cursing creatively, I can't help but grin.

This is going to be the most interesting thirty days of my life.

Even if it kills me.

Or if she does. Which would not be a bad way to go.