Page 10 of Stirring Spurs (Rainbow Ranch #1)

BOONE

Wylie Anderson’s courting me. Or his version of it. He’s got this slow, clumsy sort of charm, but there’s something about him that makes me wonder if there’s more on his mind than he lets on.

After dinner, he doesn’t leave the table when I shoo Winnie away to let me finish prepping the pastry for tomorrow’s quiche.

Sometimes a man needs to be alone with his dough.

Everyone else finishes their evenings with late night animal visits, card games in the den, or telling stories around the fire out back.

I enjoy having the last few hours of my day alone in the kitchen.

Lifting the food processor from the shelf on the open island, I breathe in the cool air drifting in from the back door.

Ma’s simple pie crust recipe doesn’t take long to prepare, but the secret is letting it rest overnight in the fridge.

With the rest of the ingredients gathered on the counter, I begin dicing the chilled butter into small cubes.

When I lift the knife to slice, I’m interrupted by the sound of a throat clearing.

Wylie stands at the doorway between the dining room and kitchen, leaning against the molding with a sheepish look on his face.

“Mr. Anderson, come in if you like. No snakes in here. None that will bite you, anyway.”

I raise my eyebrows at him, and his lips stretch into a wide handsome smile.

“Sit,” I nod to the stool in the corner, and for all that’s good and mighty, I sound like Ma ordering him around.

Once my mortification subsides, a smirk sneaks onto my face. Mr. Anderson does as I say, doing his best not to squirm as he watches me prepare the ice water.

“Another mighty fine meal,” he says. “Best dang French toast I’ve ever had.”

“Thank you, sir.” I wink and scoop ice cubes from the freezer into the stainless steel bowl I’ve retrieved. “A little cinnamon and vanilla in the batter.” I shrug, unsure he cares about my French toast recipe.

“You really…” he starts but then stops, and when I look at him, his jaw appears fixed and almost closed. The stubble on his face has gotten longer, and I wonder what his face might look like clean-shaven.

Placing the ice on the counter, I take a step closer to him. I’m inclined to ask what he meant to say, but I don’t. Instead, I search Wylie’s face, his deep brown eyes, and see he’s pondering where to go from here. So, I wait.

He bites his lower lip, perhaps in frustration, and I take another step.

“Take your time,” I whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He takes a deep breath, and when his eyes find mine, I curl the left side of my mouth up.

“Care,” he says, his voice scarcely more than a breath.

Wylie’s jaw remains firm, and I open my mouth to reply, but before I can, he continues .

“You really care. With all…” He nods toward the counter. “This.”

Fireflies light up in my chest because, even though I know everyone on the ranch appreciates each other, we’re not big on saying it.

He’s staring at me like he can see right to my core, and his voice comes out low and deep. “Damn, you’re…”

Out of nowhere, my head feels woozy. Like those damn fireflies in my chest took a sharp turn north and are now fluttering in my head. I move to the counter to brace myself as the room spins like my trusty mixer.

“Boone.”

He’s behind me. Hands around my waist, firm chest against my back. Holding me.

“If I weren’t already dizzy, I’d be swooning,” I say.

This makes him laugh, and as the room settles back into place, he guides me over to the stool.

“Sit.” He nods at the stool.

He carefully removes my hat and places it on the counter.

“Now, who’s bossing who around?”

He turns and grabs a glass from the open shelving above the sink, quickly scooping ice from the bowl on the counter and filling the glass at the sink.

“Drink.”

“I’m fine.” I feel the color return to my face as I grip the glass with both hands and sip.

He’s crouching before me, his brown hair dusting his forehead. My fingers twitch on the cool tumbler, yearning to brush it out of his face.

I take a drink, making sure my tongue isn’t too dry, before speaking.

“I’m not used to cowboys…”

“Your twin brother’s a cowboy. Younger brother, too. Your sister’s got more grit than most men. Hell, you're downright surrounded by cowboys.”

“I was going to say, I’m not used to cowboys being sweet on me.”

Wylie draws his lips in. He’s on his knees now, the heels of his boots off the ground. He takes a long draw of air through his nose and then places a hand on my knee.

My eyes stare at his fingers, rough from riding. I recognize the dry brittleness of my siblings’ skin, and I know a few tricks to keep the calluses at bay, but I keep my mouth shut and take another swallow.

“Boone, can I ask you something?”

He tilts his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, seems like you got me cornered.”

A slow smile creeps across my face as the warmth of his hand on my knee keeps me in place. Then, with a bit of pressure, those fingers squeeze the muscle at the base of my thigh—enough to send a shiver all the way up my spine.

“Why are you by yourself?”

I take a gulp of water, and the ice creates a jam near my teeth.

“I’m not. I’ve got my brothers and Billie. Pris, Winnie. The teens come to help and… I take care of them.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

My butt scooches back on the stool, and the wall meets my back. There’s nowhere to go and nothing left for me to say.

“You take care of them. But who takes care of you?”

Wylie’s hand abandons my knee and brushes against my cheek. His finger pushes a loose strand of hair out of the way and then traces down my jawline, pausing under my lower lip.

“I’ve been wantin' to kiss you for a good while now.”

My mind storms—thoughts crashing into one another like the beaters in my mixer, too tangled to make any sense.

Everything blurs but his face. Without a second thought, driven by a longing and something deeper I can’t put my finger on, I close the space between us.

Our mouths are so near, and the warmth of his breath ghosts over my lips.

“This... okay?” My voice feels unsteady, unsure, even as confidence builds inside me.

Wylie doesn’t answer right away, just looks at me, his gaze steady, like he’s searching for something. His breath caresses my face, and the way he shifts closer without speaking tells me everything I need to know.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, his voice rough as his pupils blow wide.

That’s all it takes. I lean forward, and my lips brush against his.

The kiss is soft, tentative at first, as if we’re both testing the waters.

Having my lips on Wylie Anderson’s does something to my insides—makes 'em soft and mushy like fresh batter. But then the tension breaks and something shifts, like we’ve been waiting for this moment since the day he arrived.

He leans into me, his hands resting on my shoulders.

The touch is affectionate and firm, grounding me.

I deepen the kiss, my heart hammering in my chest like a woodpecker on caffeine, and everything else disappears.

There’s no room for doubts, no space for hesitation.

The entire ranch fades away, leaving only the press of his lips against mine as the pulse of our hearts sync.

Wylie’s hand never leaves my face, but he folds his fingers around the back of my neck, holding me in place. His rough stubble presses against the skin around my mouth as his tongue pokes at my lips. Without hesitation, I welcome him in, softly sucking on his tongue, urging him deeper.

“Fuck,” he murmurs into my mouth.

I pull back, taking a moment to really see him, his eyes, the set of his stubbly jaw, the way his lips tinge pink from the attention. He’s so darn handsome, it hurts.

“Hopefully later,” I say.

He laughs. The biggest, heartiest chuckle I’ve heard from him in the time he’s been here, and a jolt of excitement zips through me.

Before he’s able to speak, I place my empty glass on the counter and reach behind his head, pulling him back, this time thrusting my tongue between his teeth.

Wylie lets out a soft moan, revealing a tenderness that makes my dick jump to life in my jeans.

There’s a light touch, almost a whisper against my skin, starting at my cheek, continuing around my ear, and ending with a gentle kneading of my earlobe.

Of course I know we can't stay like this forever—him kneeling before me, kissing me on the kitchen stool, out in the open for anyone to see. Still, I wish I could freeze this moment. Make it last forever.

When we finally pull back, just a few inches, our foreheads resting together, we’re both breathless.

“You know, I came back here for a reason,” he says, his voice hushed but steady.

“To kiss me?”

“To fix your wagon.”

“Oh.”

“Kissing is a bonus.” His finger lands on my dimple, making tiny circles.

“Wagon’s out back.” I nod toward the rear door. “I need to finish my pastry before bed.”

He nods, pulling his lips in as he scans my face, searching.

“I’ll grab oil from the shed.”

I nod, and Wylie moves his hand to the ground, bracing himself to stand.

“Wait,” I say. “One more.”

“You sure?”

I look at him, my chest tight with emotion.

“Never been more,” I reply, my breath catching in my throat. I press my lips to his, tasting like sweet tea, a kiss that consumes my very being.