Page 9 of Wicked Cowboy

“Night, Frankie.”

I watch her climb the stairs, hair glowing gold in the porch light. When the door clicks shut behind her, I stay where I am, the taste of her still on my lips and the storm she started still rolling somewhere under my ribs.

Chapter five

Frankie

The smell of coffee and bacon could bring me back from the dead.

It’s the kind of smell that seeps into dreams, and when I finally open my eyes, sunlight is spilling across the quilt.

I blink at the ceiling, and memory slides in, warm and dangerous. The porch. The rain. The kiss.

The one I’m absolutely not supposed to be thinking about, except I am, in vivid, slow-motion detail.

I flop onto my back and groan into the pillow. “Frankie, you’re an absolute menace.”

It doesn’t help. I can still feel the rough brush of Rhett’s thumb against my cheek, the way his breath stilled just before he kissed me. The way everything stilled.

Male voices drift up from downstairs, then Martha’s cackle of pure delight.

Are they talking about me?

I drag myself out of bed, slip into jeans and a soft sweater, and tug Rhett’s flannel from the chair. I should leave it, but it smells like him, and I’m weak.

Barefoot, I walk down the hall, following the scent of breakfast. The house feels alive, floorboards creaking under my steps, sunlight cutting through the windows, a faint hum of morning chores starting outside. Brush Creek Ranch is awake, and apparently, so is its gossip.

When I reach the kitchen doorway, I hear Luke first.

“…not saying Isawanything,” he’s telling Martha, “but when I came in from the barn, there were definitely two silhouettes on the porch. One of them had Rhett’s hat. The other looked like—”

“Finish that sentence,” Martha says, “and you’ll be mucking stalls before sunrisethe rest of the year.”

I step in right as Luke catches sight of me. “Morning, Frankie. Sleep well?”

“Like a rock.” I smile sweetly. “Dreamt about pumpkins chasing me, though. Wonder why.”

Rhett sits at the table with his coffee. He looks half-asleep, hair damp, flannel sleeves rolled, jaw shadowed. He glances up when I speak, eyes flicking to the shirt I borrowed. Something flickers there, heat, maybe recognition, before he hides it behind his mug.

“Coffee?” he asks, voice rough. “It’s hot.”

“Perfect,” I say, taking the chair opposite him. “I love caffeine and gossip for breakfast.”

Luke laughs. “She’s quick, Rhett. You sure you’re ready for this level of verbal combat before breakfast?”

“I’m not talking,” Rhett mutters.

“Good plan,” Martha says, setting a plate in front of me. “Eat first, defend your honor later.”

The pancakes are perfect, crisp at the edges, soft in the center, drizzled with syrup that tastes faintly like spice and apples. I’m halfway through my first bite when I realize the entire room has gone quiet.

They’re watching me.

I look up slowly. “What?”

Luke leans forward, eyes bright. “So. What exactly were you two talking about on the porch last night?”

Rhett’s jaw tightens. “Weather.”