Page 27 of Wrecked for Love (Buffaloberry Hill #1)

CLAIRE

Mr. Gunn and I spent the afternoon tidying up the shelter and making sure the animals were settled and the paperwork was squared away.

We scrubbed down the dog runs, gave the cats a fresh batch of toys, and reorganized the donation bins.

It always felt good to see the shelter in tip-top shape, like we were giving these little souls a real chance at finding their forever homes.

As we finished stacking some blankets, Mr. Gunn turned to me.

“A boy came by today. He wanted to see Oscar,” he said, wiping his hands on his apron.

“Oh?” I paused, curious.

“Guessing it was the same boy you mentioned at the fundraiser. The one I didn’t get to see,” he said, his eyes thoughtful.

“Hmm. Maybe. Did he give you his name?” I asked, intrigued by the mystery kid.

“Nope. But I’ll tell you this—Oscar warmed up to him faster than I’ve ever seen. And the kid managed to hand-feed that Boxer, which, I might add, you couldn’t quite pull off,” Mr. Gunn hinted.

I gave him a light glare, even though inside, I was thrilled with the news.

He then added, “Strangely enough, the kid was more scared of me than that tough brute.”

“Well, let’s be honest, you’re not exactly rocking the ‘grandpa of the year’ vibes,” I jabbed back.

He let out a deep, booming laugh that seemed way too big for his wiry frame. Honestly, if he slapped on a Santa suit, he could probably out-jolly Tim Allen and win Christmas in the process.

“I’m working on it,” he said, still riding out the last few chuckles.

“All right. In the meantime, I’ll see what I can find about this so-called prodigy dog whisperer. Maybe I can talk to his parents about adopting Oscar,” I mused, already picturing a reunion between boy and dog.

Mr. Gunn nodded. “Would be a match made in Buffaloberry Shelter, no doubt.”

I grinned, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “Fingers crossed. See you next week, Mr. Gunn.”

“Take care, Claire. And by the way, love the new hair,” he said with a wink.

I touched my hair self-consciously, already thinking about someone else I was far more interested in impressing. “Thanks,” I said, smiling as I headed out the door.

On the way to The Lazy Moose, I took my time at the grocery store, gathering dinner ingredients. I lingered until late afternoon, knowing my cowboy would have wrapped things up at the farm by now. My favorite time of the day was when the fields turned golden under the low sun.

As I parked and stepped out, I spotted Elia with Hank and the boys. Their conversation dropped to a murmur the second they saw me coming, but I didn’t miss the teasing glances they shot in Elia’s direction. Hank raised an eyebrow, and Tucker’s smirk was borderline conspiratorial.

“Well, well, look who came to visit,” Hank said, his grin wide, his voice practically dripping with mock innocence. “Lucas, you’ve got company.”

Elia waved them off, still busy washing his face at the old pump near the barn. “You boys behave yourselves,” he warned.

I caught his eye as he looked up at me and did a double take, his wide-eyed surprise clear even from a distance.

“Hey there, stranger.” I strutted toward him, seduction written all over my posture.

The boys behind him whistled, one of them hollering, “Careful, Lucas! She’s gonna lasso you quicker than a runaway calf!”

Elia shot them a warning glance. “Shoosh! You keep flustering her, and I’ll introduce you to the wrong end of my boot!”

The group burst into laughter as Elia strode over to me, already steering me away from the peanut gallery.

His hand rested comfortably on the small of my back as he led me toward the house. “You chose one hell of a timing,” he said, a smirk plastering his blushing face.

“Exactly. Just when your muscles are all sweaty from a hard day’s work.” I gave him a slow once-over. I wasn’t joking.

“Looking for inspiration for your book, I see?” he teased, gluing his front to me.

“Maybe,” I replied, grinding the crotch of my jeans against his just slightly before adding, “Or maybe I just wanted to give you a chance to show off. You know, be proud of me in front of the boys.”

His fingers grazed my hair. “You do look fucking amazing, Chili.” His eyes took in my hair, like he was seeing more than just the new look.

And yep, the temperature definitely spiked. Who knew a hair color could do that to a man?

“So, what color is this?”

“My New York hairdresser called it caramel. Here, they say it’s butterscotch—a bit more charming, like the town.”

“And you,” he murmured, his fingers sliding through my hair, his breath warm against my ear, “you’re way too charming for your own good.”

“It’s my natural color, actually.”

Elia’s grin softened. “Figures. Natural suits you. You look stunning!” He dipped his head, capturing my lips in a possessive kiss and reminding me of just how much this man meant to me.

Most women wouldn’t want to feel like a trophy and wouldn’t want to be paraded around as something their man could boast about.

Hell, I didn’t want that either—not entirely.

But, in moments like this, being his best possession—even if only for a second—felt like an aphrodisiac.

There was something about the way he looked at me when the boys were around, the pride in his eyes that sent a thrill through me.

A spark of heat that wasn’t just about love but about the power I had over him and the way I knew he saw me as his—his Chili Pepper.

And damn, sometimes it felt good to lean into that, to let myself be that for him.

“You’ve been busy,” Elia said, helping me with the grocery bags as we strolled toward the house.

“Yeah. I’ll sort out dinner tonight.”

I let him head to the shower, though my mind wasn’t innocent about it. To be honest, I would’ve loved to sneak a peek, but I shooed those thoughts away and turned my attention to the kitchen instead.

I had actually planned this little dinner surprise earlier in the day. Fresh chicken, Italian sausage, peppers, and all the fixings for one of my favorite New York dishes: chicken scarpariello. It was hearty, flavorful, and a bit of a crowd-pleaser—a perfect choice for tonight.

Koda stood by me, his tail wagging as he watched me work.

“Ah, Elia told me you’re on a special diet,” I said to him. I had made a simple dish for him—just boiled chicken and rice—which I’d double-checked online to make sure it was safe for older dogs like Koda. As soon as I set it down for him, the mutt dug in.

“Good boy,” I muttered, giving him a fond pat as he devoured the meal.

As I prepped the ingredients for the humans—chopping the vegetables and stirring the sauce—I couldn’t help but imagine Elia in the shower, water running over his muscles. Bless my Venus . But really, I shouldn’t let my mind wander too far.

Just as I was getting the sauce to the perfect simmer, he appeared—fresh out of the shower, a towel slung low around his hips, and droplets of water still clinging to his chest. The scent of sandalwood drifted through the air, subtly cutting through the kitchen aromas as if to remind me— don’t miss this!

Heat pooled between my legs, threatening to ruin my concentration—and the sauce. He caught my eye and smirked, fully aware that I was watching him. And Lord, he didn’t rush—didn’t even attempt to conceal the tenting under the thick, dark green towel.

Calm as ever, he breezed right past me and headed to his room to change, leaving me to wrestle with what was left of my self-control.

He knew exactly what he was doing, and it worked like a charm.

My spoon stirred the sauce with more vigor than was necessary until he strolled back out, now wearing a snug sweatshirt and chino shorts, all casual, as if nothing had happened.

“Shoot!” I yelped, spilling a bit of sauce.

“You good over there?” he asked.

“Yep, all fine,” I muttered, shifting to cover the mess while trying to block him from distracting me.

“Don’t let me stop you,” he said, ambling toward the wine fridge.

Small towns had their secret treasures, or so they said.

Turns out, they weren’t wrong. Just look at him.

Whether wrapped in a towel or fully dressed, the guy was breathtaking.

But I hadn’t forgotten he had a heart that ran far deeper than his looks.

Still, part of me wondered: was this the disaster I’d been trying to avoid or the flashpoint I’d look back on fondly when I was seventy? The one that changed everything?

Elia opened the wine fridge, glancing over his shoulder at me. “White for tonight?”

“Believe it or not, I’m still happy to follow your lead,” I quipped.

He poured us some chardonnay. Before long, the chicken was ready, and I plated everything up. We sat down to dinner, and as soon as he took the first bite, the look in his eyes said it all—approval and something more.

“This is amazing,” Elia said, digging into the scarpariello. “You really outdid yourself.”

“Glad you like it,” I said, taking a bite myself.

After we’d eaten most of the meal, he got up and returned with a couple of beers, handing one to me. “Valley Wolf,” he said with a grin. “Brewed a little off the radar. Technically, it’s gray-market stuff.”

I raised an eyebrow but took a sip. The first taste hit hard, like some kind of wild whiskey crossed with benzine. “Dang! This stuff’s got a kick,” I said, my voice hoarse.

Elia laughed. “Yeah, it’s an acquired taste. But trust me, it grows on you.”

And he was right. A few more sips in, and I found myself starting to enjoy it. There was something raw, unpolished, but undeniably satisfying about it. Just like the man sitting across from me.

The night was winding down, and we were doing what any other couple might do—or at least what normal couples did.

Normal?

That word had practically vanished from my vocabulary, yet here we were, snuggled up on the couch with a loyal dog curled at our feet like this was the most natural thing in the world. Though I have to admit, the Valley Wolf beer in our hands was anything but ordinary.