Page 9 of My Cowboy Trouble (The Cowboy Romantic Comedies #1)

His lips twitch as he moves behind me, adjusting my grip on the rope. Unlike yesterday with Asher, Trent keeps a healthy distance between us, barely touching except where absolutely necessary. Which somehow makes it worse, because I'm hyperaware of every point of almost-contact.

"You want to keep your elbow up," he says, his voice close to my ear. "And when you release, it's a smooth motion. Like you're painting a circle in the air."

"I failed art class."

"Why am I not surprised?" But there's no heat in it. His hand covers mine, guiding me through the motion. "Feel that? "

I feel a lot of things, none of which have to do with roping.

"Sure. Totally. Smooth circles."

"Now try it."

I swing the rope with what I think is perfect form. It goes about three feet and falls to the ground like a dead snake.

"That was terrible," he grunts.

"Thanks for the pep talk, coach."

"You're overthinking it." He retrieves the rope, demonstrating the motion himself. The rope sails through the air in a perfect arc, landing cleanly around the dummy's horns. "It's about rhythm and release."

"You guys and your rhythm obsession."

"Try again."

I try. And fail. Try again. Fail worse. On my tenth attempt, I somehow manage to rope myself, the loop tightening around my waist.

"How?" Trent asks, genuinely baffled. "How did you even?—"

"It's a talent." I try to wiggle free, but only succeed in tangling myself further. "Um. Little help?"

He steps closer, working to loosen the rope, and suddenly we're way too close. His hands are on the rope at my waist, his face inches from mine.

"Stop moving," he murmurs, focused on the knot.

"I'm not moving."

"You're trembling."

"It's cold. "

"It's ninety degrees."

"I run cold."

His eyes flick up to mine, and for a moment, we just stare at each other. The air between us feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. His hands are still on the rope, still at my waist, and neither of us is moving now.

"Trent," I start, not sure what I'm going to say.

"Almost got it," he says, but his voice is rougher now.

The rope loosens and falls away, but he doesn't step back. We're still standing too close, still caught in whatever this is.

"Well, well, well."

We jump apart like teenagers caught making out. Gavin's leaning against the fence, that insufferable smirk firmly in place.

"Don't let me interrupt... whatever this is."

"It's rope training," Trent says flatly.

"Is that what we're calling it?" Gavin's grin widens. "Because from where I'm standing, it looked like?—"

"Did you need something?" Trent cuts him off.

"Just came to watch the show. Heard the city girl was learning to rope." He winks at me. "Looks like you're a natural at getting tied up."

"Gavin," Trent warns.

"What? I'm just observing. Making sure everyone's having a good time." He hops the fence with annoying ease. "Mind if I help? I'm excellent with ropes. All kinds of knots."

"We're fine," Trent says at the same time I say, "Sure!"

They look at each other, some kind of silent male communication happening that I can't decipher.

"Actually," I say, because the tension is getting weird, "I should probably check on the horses. Make sure Pepper hasn't started a revolution or something."

"The horses are fine," Trent says.

"You sure? Because earlier you said?—"

"They're fine."

"Okay, then." I back away slowly. "I'll just... go find something else to screw up. I mean, fix. Find something to fix."

I practically run back to the barn, my skin still tingling where the rope had been. Where his hands had been.

Oh boy.

I'm hiding in the feed room, stress-eating an apple I stole from the horses, when Trent finds me. Because of course he does. The man has a supernatural ability to appear wherever I'm trying to avoid him.

"That's for the horses."

"They have plenty." I take another defiant bite. "Besides, I'm basically livestock at this point. I smell like a barn, I'm up at dawn, and I'm pretty sure I've got hay in places hay should never be."

"You've been taking shortcuts."

"Excuse me?"

He pulls out his phone—of course he has photos—and shows me a picture of the water buckets I filled. "You used the hose from outside instead of the proper water system."

"Water is water."

"The outside hose isn't filtered. It's got sediment that can cause colic."

"I didn't know that."

"Because you took a shortcut instead of asking." He swipes to another photo. "And this is how you stacked the hay bales in the loft."

"They're stacked. Vertically. Like bales."

"They're unstable. One wrong move and they'll fall on someone."

"Or," I counter, "they're efficiently stacked to maximize space."

"Efficiently?" He steps closer, and I hate that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "You think risking someone's safety is efficient?"

"I think you're looking for problems because you can't stand that I might actually be getting good at this."

"Good?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You've been here four days and you think you're good at ranching?"

"I'm learning! "

"You're playing. This is a game to you. Thirty days of dress-up and then you're gone."

"That's not?—"

"Isn't it?" He's closer now, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. "Tell me you're not already planning what you'll do with the money when you sell this place."

I want to deny it, but we both know I've thought about it. "That's none of your business."

"This ranch is my business. It's been my business since I was eighteen and my father—" He cuts himself off again, jaw working.

"Your father what?"

"Forget it."

"No. You keep starting sentences about him and not finishing them. What happened?"

"What happened is none of your business." He throws my words back at me. "Just like this ranch won't be your business after twenty-six more days."

"Twenty-five," I correct. "But who's counting?"

"I am." He takes another step closer, and now I'm backed against the feed room wall. "Every damn day you're here, playing cowgirl, disrupting everything, making the men lose focus?—"

"Making the men lose focus?" I laugh. "Are you serious?"

"Billy walked into a fence post yesterday watching you."

"That's not my fault! "

"Gavin spent two hours this morning talking about your legs instead of working."

"Again, not my fault!"

"And Asher..." He pauses, something flickering in his eyes. "Asher's acting like a lovesick teenager."

"And what about you?" The words are out before I can stop them. "Am I making you lose focus too?"

He goes very still. We're close enough that I can see his pupils dilate, see the muscle in his jaw twitch.

"I don't lose focus," he says quietly.

"No? Then why are you here, cornering me in a feed room, instead of doing your precious ranch work?"

"I'm not cornering you."

"You're literally blocking the only exit."

He looks at the door, then back at me, but doesn't move. "You can leave anytime you want."

"Can I?"

The air between us is thick, charged with something that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the way his eyes keep dropping to my mouth.

"This is a bad idea," he says, but he's leaning closer.

"The worst," I agree, not moving away.

"You're leaving in twenty-five days."

"Twenty-five and a half, technically."

"Kenzie."

The way he says my name, low and rough, makes my knees weak.

"Yo! Trent! Where you at? "

Asher's voice breaks the spell. Trent steps back so fast, he almost trips over a feed bucket.

"In here," he calls, his voice admirably steady.

Asher appears in the doorway, taking in the scene with raised eyebrows. "Interrupting something?"

"No," we say in unison, which definitely doesn't sound suspicious at all.

"Right." Asher's grin says he's not buying it. "Clara Mae's here. Says she needs to talk to you about Brutus and some property damage."

"Christ." Trent runs a hand through his hair. "Tell her I'll be right there."

Asher disappears, but not before giving me a look that says we'll be talking later.

Trent starts to leave, then turns back. "We're not done discussing your shortcuts."

"Looking forward to it," I say sweetly.

He makes a frustrated noise and stalks out, leaving me alone with my stolen apple and a serious case of what-the-hell-just-happened.

I need to be more careful. Twenty-five days is a long time to be playing with fire.

Especially when part of me is starting to want to get burned.

The sun is setting by the time I finish all the tasks on Trent's impossible list. My hands are raw, my back is screaming, and I'm pretty sure I'll never get all the dirt out from under my nails. But I did it. Every single thing on his list, plus a few extra tasks just to prove a point.

I'm in the barn, double-checking that all the stalls are latched properly—wouldn't want another Pepper incident—when Trent appears. He does a slow circuit of the barn, inspecting everything with that critical eye that usually makes me want to throw something at him.

"The water buckets are filled using the proper system," I say, not looking at him. "The hay is stacked according to your very specific requirements. All gates are latched, all feed is properly stored, and I even cleaned the tack room, which wasn't on the list but desperately needed it."

He's quiet for so long, I finally turn to look at him. He's standing by Whiskey's stall, and there's something almost like surprise on his face.

"You organized the tack room?"

"It was a disaster. How do you find anything in there?"

"We have a system."

"Chaos is not a system."

His mouth twitches. "You alphabetized the horse brushes."

"They were all mixed together! It was anarchy!"

"They're brushes, not library books."

"Everything has a proper place." I cross my arms. " Isn't that what you're always telling me? Proper procedures, proper methods, proper everything?"

He walks over to where I'm standing, and for once, he doesn't look disapproving. He looks... thoughtful.

"Not bad," he says quietly.

Two words. That's all. But from Trent, it feels like a victory parade.

"Was that a compliment? Did you just compliment me? Should I mark this date in my calendar?"

"Don't push it."

"Too late. I'm getting it embroidered on a pillow. 'Not bad' - Trent Mercer, a date which will live in infamy."

"You're impossible."

"And yet, not bad."

He's fighting a smile now. I can see it. "You missed a spot in the tack room."

"I did not!"

"Behind the saddle racks."

"That's not a spot, that's a design choice. I left it rustic."

"Rustic."

"It's very Montana."

Now he does smile, just a little, and it transforms his whole face. Gone is the stern taskmaster, and in his place is someone younger, lighter, almost approachable.

"Hey there, party people! "

The moment shatters. Gavin strolls into the barn, already dressed for a night out in jeans that should be illegal and a shirt that's unbuttoned one button too many.

"We're working," Trent says, the smile vanishing.

"Work's over. It's time to play." Gavin grins at me. "You ready for the rodeo, princess?"

"What rodeo?"

"The one I'm taking you to. Tonight. Dancing, drinking, and if you're really lucky, you might get to see me ride a mechanical bull."

"I haven't agreed to any of this."

"Sure you have. It's part of your ranch education. Can't own a ranch if you've never been to a proper rodeo." He winks. "Besides, you need to see me in my natural habitat."

"A bar is your natural habitat?"

"Among other places." His grin turns wicked. "Wear something pretty. Or don't. You look good in everything. And nothing, I'm betting."

"Gavin," Trent warns.

"What? I'm being hospitable. Showing our new owner the local culture." He saunters over and throws an arm around my shoulders. "Plus, she needs to learn how to two-step. It's basically a job requirement out here."

"I don't dance."

"Everyone dances after enough whiskey."

"That's not reassuring. "

"It's not supposed to be." He steers me toward the door. "Go get changed. We leave in thirty."

"But—"

"Twenty-nine minutes now."

I look back at Trent, not sure why I'm seeking his permission or approval or... something.

"Go," he says quietly. "You've earned it."

"You could come too," I offer, surprising myself.

Something flickers across his face. "Someone needs to stay with the ranch."

"The ranch won't run away."

Before I can respond, Gavin's pulling me out of the barn. "He'll come, princess. He's just playing hard to get. After all, he's practically allergic to fun. Breaks out in hives and everything."

"I heard that," Trent calls after us.

"You were supposed to!"

As Gavin drags me toward the house, chattering about the rodeo and all the trouble we're going to get into, I glance back at the barn. Trent's standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the fading light, watching us go.

For a second, just a second, he looks lonely.

Then he turns and disappears back into the barn, back to his work and his routines and his proper procedures.

"Earth to Kenzie!" Gavin snaps his fingers in front of my face. "You with me?"

"Yeah, sorry. Just thinking. "

"Don't hurt yourself. Save your energy for tonight." He grins. "You're gonna need it."

"Why do I feel like I'm going to regret this?"

"Because you probably will. The best nights always come with regrets."

"That's terrible advice."

"That's experience talking, princess."

I head into the house to shower and change, but I can't shake the image of Trent standing alone in that doorway. Or the way he'd said "not bad" like it cost him something to admit.

Or the way he'd looked at me in the feed room, like he wanted to do a lot more than argue about shortcuts.

Twenty-five days.

I'm starting to think that's both too long and not nearly long enough.