Page 6 of Wicked Cowboy

Rhett glares. “You’ve got your own plate.”

“Yeah, but they taste better when they’re stolen.” Luke tosses me a wink. “You settling in all right, Frankie?”

“Perfectly. Your grandma makes the best coffee I’ve had since college.”

“Careful,” Martha warns. “I might just adopt you and give you chores like the boys.”

“I’m not scared of chores,” I say.

“Good.” She points her spatula toward the table. “Then sit, eat, and tell me why a city girl came all this way to the middle of nowhere.”

Rhett mutters something under his breath, but she ignores him.

I settle into a chair, wrapping my hands around the mug. “Honestly? I needed a break. Life’s been… noisy. I signed up for a women’s retreat near here. My GPS had other plans.”

Luke chuckles. “The famous Brush Creek detour. Half our best customers get lost first.”

“Well, your pumpkins didn’t survive my navigation skills,” I confess. “Sorry about that, Rhett.”

He looks up from pouring coffee, green eyes steady. “They’ll grow back.”

The way he says it, low and even, sends a small, inexplicable pulse through my stomach. It’s ridiculous how much his simple words affect me.

Martha catches the moment, of course. Her smile turns sly. “Rhett, why don’t you show her the barn later? Festival setup’s coming along.”

He starts to protest, but she lifts a brow.

“You could use the help and the company.”

He sighs. “Fine.”

After breakfast, Luke disappears to check the fences, Martha hums her way through the dishes, and Rhett grabs his hat from the hook.

“You ready?” he asks.

“For festival set-up duty? Always.”

The walk to the barn is bright and cold, the ground still soft from the rain. He keeps pace beside me, hands shoved into his pockets. The air between us feels charged, like static before lightning.

“So,” I say, breaking the silence, “does your grandma always recruit strangers to do your chores?”

“She recruits anyone who’ll listen to her,” he says. “Lucky you.”

“Lucky me.”

We reach the barn, and I stop short. Inside, sunlight slants through the open doors, spilling across rows of pumpkins, bales of hay, twinkle lights strung overhead. “Wow,” I breathe. “It’s like a Hallmark movie exploded in here.”

“Luke’s doing,” he says. “He thinks festive equals profit.”

“Your brother seems fun.”

“He’s loud,” Rhett says dryly.

“And you’re not,” I reply, already knowing this man is never loud for no reason.

“I’m the quiet one.”

I glance at him, arching a brow. “You don’t say.”