Page 122 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys

"Come on, Nell. You've got to be hungry," Cooper finally spoke again, a note of insistence in his voice now. He sounded closer too, as if he were right outside the door, maybe pressed against it. “Look, hate us, and this situation all you want, but starving yourself won't do you any favors the next time you decide to take a midnight run without a weapon wearing a pair of my giant boots.”

I blinked, taken aback by his directness. No platitudes about how I didn't need to worry about escaping, no false reassurances that this was my home now. Just a practical acknowledgment that I would try again, and that I'd need my strength when I did.

My mind shuffled through potential responses, discarding each as too revealing or too vulnerable. The truth was, he was right. I’d already been over this in my head once. I had to eat and keep my strength. So, I gave in. The same damn way I had with breakfast yesterday. The same damn way I kept giving in for some reason.

Then it hit me that he called me Nell, not Nelly.

“My name is Nelly,” I breathed out, letting him know I was irritated about more than just the nickname. “We’re not buddies.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he agreed, “not buddies at all. I’m just your enemy that wants you to eat before another battle.”

What was it with this asshole? Did he really think the joking and teasing might win me over?

"Fine," I said, opening the door with more force than necessary, as if I could physically push back against my own capitulation.

Cooper wasn’t leaning against the door. I sort of wish he had been, and my abrupt exit would cause him to fall on his ass. But no, he stood in the hallway, a good six inches taller than me, his dirty blond hair braided down his back, looking ruggedly handsome. I wanted to punch the crooked smile from his face. But I couldn’t even clench my fist. The guy smelled like cinnamon buns and maple syrup. My freaking knees went weak at the sight and smell of him!

He wore a button-down, the arms rolled up to show off his tattoos and biceps.

I wanted to hate how the red fabric somehow brought out the silver flecks in his dark blue eyes, how the material stretched across his broad chest in a way that emphasized every ridge of muscle beneath, how the undone buttons at the neck made me want to unbutton the rest, and how his sharp jaw was something out of a damn action movie. I wanted to feel nothing but contempt for the easy confidence in his stance and the way he looked at me like nothing was wrong in the world, and we were all exactly where we should be.

I.

Wanted.

To. Hate.

Everything.

But the sight of his tattooed forearms made something flutter in my chest. A stack of pancakes. A knife and fork. An almost cartoon style cheeseburger with wings. Goofy, but they fit him. My traitorous Omega side registered every inch of what he was offering. The rippling strength, kissable mouth, the gourmand scent clinging to him as if he’d just finished baking, which maybe he had. My stomach clenched, no longer just hungry for food.I crushed the reaction. I would not be attracted to any of these men. I refused to let my biology keep overriding my common fucking sense.

"There she is," he said, that sly grin widening as he took in my appearance. "Looking cozy in my swim trunks."

My face warmed, cheeks most likely turning a jarring shade of pink. “These shorts are stupid,” I said, stumbling over the words, feeling like an idiot. Why couldn’t I think of something more hateful?

"There's a plate warming in the oven," he said, ignoring my thin jab as if it were no more than a grain of rice lobbed at his head. Couldn’t hurt him. Probably nothing I could do would hurt him. Or any of them for that matter. Big, powerful Alphas. Able to do whatever they wanted in life.

“Thought you could eat in the kitchen,” he continued.

“The tray in the room works fine.”

“Firstly, I’m not running a Bed and Breakfast. Secondly, I want to make sure you eat.” His eyes flicked down, taking in the sight of me again.

God, help me. The way his gaze darkened for a heartbeat, and the way his tongue darted out to dampen his lower lip like all he saw in front of him was the best thing he might ever eat, made me want to jump his bones despite my better judgement. I crossed my arms over my chest. The childish lobster shorts were slipping down, and the thin shirt did nothing to conceal the hardening of my nipples. Stupid. Lustful. Omega.

“You seem chipper. Your buddy asleep in the hall must be jealous.”

“Boone?” Cooper quirked an eyebrow. “He stayed out guarding against the mountain lion longer than the rest of us. He does that anytime we might have to kill something to keep the cattle safe. He tries to track the animal, spook it away if possible. If we got to kill it, he makes sure to bury it properly.”

“I’m not sorry about trying to run away,” I bit out, as if Cooper was trying to make me feel guilty that Boone was exhausted.

“You shouldn’t be,” Cooper nodded, “you alerted us to the mountain lion. Might have lost a cow without you.”

“I… what… I wasn’t trying to help you!” I sputtered out the words.

“Could have fooled me.” He shrugged. “But anyways, Boone grew up on reservation land. He can go without sleep for a long time, and track anything for miles.” Cooper turned around, giving me his back. I stood there, mouth gaping open, as he trailed down the hallway.

Why did that ‘track anything for miles’ part sound like both a threat and promise?