Page 14 of Owned By The Cowboy

He lets out a low chuckle that hits me straight between my thighs. “Sounds about right.”

“Blayne!” Annalise appears from the kitchen, her face lit up like it’s Christmas morning. “Did you come to see our house?”

“I came to make sure everything’s working right for you,” he replies, and again his deep voice goes softer when he talks to her, just like it did at the store.

“Everything’s working except Mama’s sewing machine.”

“Annalise,” I warn.

“What’s wrong with it?” Blayne asks, turning his blue gaze my way. Lord, this man’s eyes.

“Nothing’s wrong with it. I just can’t figure out how to thread it.”

“It’s really fancy,” Annalise adds helpfully. “And Mama’s been staring at it for hours.”

“Not hours,” I correct.

“A really long time,” she insists, nodding seriously like she has any notion of time.

Blayne’s full mouth twitches, and I notice the scruff covering his square jaw.

Get yourself together, Regina Mason. You’re standing in front of our child!

“You setting up a sewing machine?”

“Trying to, but this one’s more complicated than what I’m used to.”

“Can I take a look?”

“Oh, you don’t have to…”

“I don’t mind.”

Before I can protest further, Annalise is grabbing his huge hand in her tiny one and dragging him to the spare room. “It’sin here! Mama turned it into her sewing room, and it’s really pretty.”

I follow them, trying not to notice how Blayne’s hand completely engulfs my daughter’s tiny one, how patient he is with her chatter. Or how the way he moves makes me think he must be packing something pretty substantial in those jeans… I’m so going to hell for this.

The spare room does look pretty good, as my baby said. I’ve arranged everything the way I want it. Cutting table by the window, storage bins organized by color, the sewing machine set up in the corner where the natural light hits the best.

“Nice setup,” Blayne says, looking around. And I realize I love seeing him in my space. Watching him take in what I’ve put together so far. I’m so screwed… “You do this kind of work before?”

“As a hobby. I’m hoping to make it into something more.”

He nods and moves to the sewing machine, setting his toolbox on the floor. All tall, built, stupid handsome, and efficient in his movements. Pure manly grace. “What kind of machine is this?”

“Bernina. It was a gift from my…” I trail off, not wanting to mention Richard. “It was a gift.”

Blayne doesn’t push for details; he just examines the machine with careful attention.

“You got the manual?”

“Over there. I’ll get it.”

When I come back with the manual, he’s already figured out how to open the front panel. His hands are much bigger than mine, but he’s surprisingly agile with the delicate parts.

“Threading’s not too different from the industrial machines we use for canvas work,” he says, taking the manual from me. “Just more bells and whistles.”

“You use sewing machines?”