He steps around me to peek around the corner, giving me an unhindered view of all the striations in his shoulders and back. “I’ve asked for a lot.”
He faces me and lifts a lone eyebrow when it takes a second for my eyes to snap to his instead of his body.
“Yes. You do. You bet. I’ll get some for you.”
He bites his lip with his smile still playing at the corners of his mouth. “You will?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
I nod because I have no clue what I am agreeing to but can’t seem to get my brain to work.
“Good thing, then.”
“Yes. Definitely.”
“So, when should we plan it for? Tomorrow night? The day after?”
“Wait—what?” I ask, suddenly wary.
“Dinner.” That damn smile of his causes things to stir in my belly that I haven’t felt in years.
“Dinner?”
“Yep. I said I liked steak and potatoes, and you said you loved to cook and were excited to finally have someone to cook for.”
“You’re insane.” I push against his chest in jest but then realize what I’m doing and yank my hand back. “I did no such thing.”
“Yes, you did,” he says as his eyes sweep down the length of my body. “Here.” I jump as he reaches out and dusts something off my hip. “You had some dirt. My fault.”
“Yes. Sure.”
“See?” He laughs, and it’s such a welcome sound when it isn’t that haughty, know-it-all tone he normally uses. “You just agreed again to dinner later this week.”
“Whatever.” I wave both of my hands at him. My own smile so wide my cheeks hurt. “The box has the breeding lines and blood schedules inside it.”
“You mean bloodlines and breeding schedules?”
“Yes. That.”
“Do I make you nervous, Knox?”
“Of course not,” I say as I almost trip over my feet in my haste to take a step backward.
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s just been a long day. It’s just been . . . you know how it’s been.”
“I do.” He takes a few steps toward the front porch and bends over to pick up the box. “Should I pick up some steaks when I head into town tonight?”
“Jack.” His name is an exasperated sigh.
“If you’re cooking, it’s the least I can do.”
“Sure.” I roll my eyes. “I’ll get right on that.”
“Cool.” He nudges the handle on his door to bring the box inside as I stare at him, mind spinning.
“So that’s why you go into town every night?”
“What do you mean?”
“Earlier today. In the stable.” I hook my thumb over my shoulder as if he understands it means when we were fighting. “You talked about the rumors about my finances. Is that where you heard them? Do you go to the bar to catch up on the latest gossip about your boss?”
Careful, there, Tate. You sound like a conceited, controlling woman with comments like that.
“Why assume I’m at the bar?”
“I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.” Nerves lace the edge of my voice. “What I meant was—”
“I’m not out to get you, Tate. I promise I’m not going into town to try to get dirt on you.”
“Of course, you aren’t,” I say, feeling like such an idiot. “I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.” Why am I so tongue-tied all of a sudden around him? “What I meant—I just . . . never mind.”
“Who says I don’t head into town because I’m a shitty cook and need to eat?”
There’s an intensity to his stare that I can’t make myself look away from. It’s almost as attractive as that little ghost of a smile that plays at the corners of his mouth. “There’s always peanut butter and jelly.”
“A man can only live on so many PB&Js, Knox.”
“True.”
And just when I’m certain this conversation is over, Jack takes a step back toward me and says, “I go to town every night—sometimes the bar, other times the diner—because the pulse of a small town is always felt in the people around you. Who’s doing what. Who’s screwing who. Where you can catch a break.” His smirk is a slow smolder as his eyes take a long minute to skim lazily over my body, feeling like a trail of fire heating my skin, before meeting mine again. “That, and it’s a hell of a lot easier sitting in town each night than sitting here, knowing you’re less than two hundred yards away looking like that.”
“Oh.”
There is no ignoring the intention in his eyes or the innuendo of his words.
“Good night, Knox.”
Jack pushes the door closed behind him, but I stand there for a quick second, trying to decide what he meant.
And how exactly it makes me feel.
13
JACK
“What in the hell are you doing there, Jack?” My sister is as confused by the notion as I was when I packed my shit and headed here.
“Drinking a beer.” I glance around at the evening crowd in Ginger’s. The regulars are here, but there seems to be more people than usual tonight due to some barrel racing competition a town over.
“You jackass. Not the bar you’re sitting in . . . the town. Lone Star. Why are you there?”
“I’m not explaining this again to you.”
“Why? Because you don’t want me to tell you that you’re on the crazy train taking a job there? Or that you punched that ticket twice by adding on working for her. The promise you made was null and void the minute he died, Jack. You being there isn’t going to do anything to change that. Finish your beer, then go back and pack so you can come home. We need you here.”
“Lauren—”
“You have shit here to straighten out that needs your attention more than she does. I can’t do this on my own. I can’t run and manage and—”
“You can manage for six months, Lauren. I’ll be back before the calves are born and the real work starts. I did this on our down time . . . or as much of a down time as the ranch has. I’m keeping my word, Lauren, to both you and dad.” I take a sip and watch a couple walk through the door, knowing the promises I made and the amends I need to follow through on so I can find the peace I’ve struggled with, aren’t things she’ll understand. “This is something I need to do.”
“Jack.” My name is a drawn-out sigh.
“You wouldn’t understand.” How could she? She’d been so lost in her bottle back then, so consumed, that there is no way she could have known what kind of standards my father held me to and the reasons I bolted the first chance I had. She’s ignorant to the life choices both of those things have led me to make.
“It’s me you’re talking about. Epic screw up kid while you were off conquering the world to try to make your own name.”
“Conquering isn’t exactly what I’d call it.” Escaping is more like it. Escaping from the relentless pressure to be who he needed and not who I wanted. “You believed Dad was as sick as he said while I shrugged it off. You were there for him when I wasn’t.” It’s barely a whisper, which the crowd eats up the minute it’s out of my mouth, but I know she hears it. Her silence in response says it.