6. Claire

6

CLAIRE

T he first thing I notice when I wake is the warmth of Brady beside me. It’s a warmth that also feels grounding. Safe. Meant to be.

He’s beautiful in a rugged way that makes my heart squeeze. His strong jaw is peppered with stubble, his shoulders are broad enough to carry the weight of this whole ranch, and his chest is rising and falling with deep, steady breaths.

Looking at him brings back vivid flashes of last night—his big hands roaming my curves, the heat of his mouth on mine, the way he filled me over and over again, so gloriously hard and thick.

But what really got me, what I keep circling back to, was the way he looked at me when he first saw me naked. He looked at me like I was something precious. And when he called me perfect …God. No one’s ever said anything like that to me before.

Brady stirs, his eyes blinking open. As he comes to, a slow smile spreads across his gorgeous lips. Something in my chest catches at the sight—it’s such a genuine, unguarded, warm smile. And it feels like it’s meant for me alone.

“Morning,” he says, voice gravelly with sleep. He leans in and presses a kiss to my lips, unhurried and sweet. The tenderness of it makes my heart ache.

Then his eyes drift to the window, and I can see him reading the light like a clock.

“We should get up,” he says, stretching. The movement makes his muscles flex in ways that are seriously distracting. “I’ll make us breakfast before we get to work.”

“I’ll help,” I say, trying to keep my eyes on his face instead of his ridiculously hot body. “Fair warning, though—once you’ve had my eggs, nothing else will measure up.”

He lets out a skeptical grunt. “That can’t be true.”

“Oh? And why’s that?”

“Because I make the best eggs.” The corner of his mouth ticks up. “It’s just a fact.”

“Is that so?” I prop myself up on an elbow, grinning at him. “Sounds like we need a cook-off to settle this.”

“You’re on.” There’s a playful glint in his eye that I’ve never seen before, and I love it. “Loser has to muck out the stalls for a week.”

I laugh. “You’re that confident in your eggs, huh?”

He just smirks, and my heart does a little flip. This lighter side of Brady, the one he’s kept walled up behind all that gruffness—well, it makes me want to spend every morning finding new ways to make him smile.

Whoa there , I tell myself firmly. One night together doesn’t mean anything has changed.

But even as I think it, I know that’s not true.

Everything has changed.

We make our way to his kitchen, and I’m pleasantly surprised at how normal it all feels. Brady moves around the space with relaxed ease, pulling out pans and ingredients. His kitchen is well-organized, everything in its place. The morning sun streams through the window over the sink, catching on the copper-bottomed pots hanging from a rack.

I find myself watching his hands—the same hands that had me moaning his name last night are now cracking eggs with precise movements. When Brady catches me watching him, he smiles, a smile that melts me more than it should.

“The secret,” he says, grabbing a whisk, “is all in the wristwork.”

I hip-check him gently as I reach for the salt. “The secret is seasoning , cowboy.”

We work around each other like we’ve done this a thousand times, and I try not to think about how much I could get used to this. Waking up next to Brady this morning felt so nice, so right . It feels like it should always be like this.

The kitchen fills with the smell of coffee and bacon, morning sun warming the worn wooden floors. Brady hums under his breath as he works—some old country song I half-recognize. We don’t talk about last night, but it’s there in the way his hand lingers when he passes me the butter, and in the warm looks we exchange over our coffee cups.

“These are pretty good,” he admits, trying my eggs. “Not the best, but pretty good.”

I taste his. Damn. They are good. But I’m not about to tell him that. “Yours need salt.”

His laugh is deep and rich, and wraps around me like a hug.

Too soon, it’s time to start the workday. There’s no shortage of tasks waiting for us, and the horses don’t care if we’re running on less sleep than usual.

We separate to tackle different chores. I head to the barn to start morning feeding while Brady checks on our newest arrival—a recently retired racehorse still adjusting to life off the track. The gelding is high-strung and suspicious of kindness. But I hear Brady’s low, steady voice as he works with him, patience in every word.

“Easy there, big guy,” he murmurs. “No one’s gonna hurt you here.”

I peek around the corner of the stall, watching as Brady slowly runs his hands down the horse’s legs, checking for heat or swelling. The gelding’s ears flick back and forth, uncertain, but Brady’s calm presence seems to steady him. The sight does something to my insides—I’m practically swooning over this big, strong man being so gentle.

Stop it , I tell myself for the hundredth time. Focus on work.

Later, we work together to clean stalls and lay fresh bedding. It’s hard work, but there’s a different energy between us now. Brady’s previous gruffness has softened into something warmer. When I tell him about how one of the older mares has been favoring her left front leg, he listens intently, asking questions, trusting my judgment.

“We should have the vet take a look,” he says, and the ‘we’ makes my heart flutter stupidly. “Maybe get some X-rays, see what we’re dealing with.”

“Good idea,” I say, trying to sound professional even as I’m imagining us running this place together, making it even better than it already is. I force myself to focus on the practical. “I noticed it started after we moved her to the south pasture. Might be the uneven ground.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Could be. We’ll move her back to the flat paddock for now.”

Throughout the day, we tackle the endless list of ranch tasks. Brady shows me a better way to wrap legs, his hands guiding mine as he demonstrates the technique. We work on fixing a section of fence that needs replacing, our bodies moving in synchronization as we lift the heavy posts. At one point, he brings me a cold bottle of water without me asking, and the small gesture of thoughtfulness makes my heart flutter.

The physical work helps keep me grounded, but my mind keeps wandering. When we eat lunch together, I imagine us sharing our meals every day. When he tells me about the improvements he wants to make on the ranch, I picture us building that future together. When he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch gentle despite his roughened hands, I imagine a wedding band on his finger—and a matching one on mine.

It’s crazy. I know it’s crazy. For all I know, Brady just wanted one night of fun. Or maybe he’s interested in something casual. The last thing I should be doing is planning our life together in my head. I’m too old for this kind of teenage daydreaming.

But then he’ll smile at me in this new way—soft and private, like we share a secret—and my heart just doesn’t want to listen to reason.

As the sun starts to set, I gather my things, not wanting to assume anything. Despite my longing to spend more time with the man I’m so utterly taken by, I know the smart thing is to go home, get some distance, try to sort out these overwhelming feelings.

“See you tomorrow, Brady,” I say casually as I head out. “Have a good night.”

Brady looks up from where he’s checking feed levels. There’s a moment’s pause that makes my heart stutter. And then he says, “Or you could stay for dinner.”

My stomach does a backflip, but I manage to keep my voice light. “Trying to prove you can cook more than just eggs?”

He laughs. “Something like that.”

I pretend to consider it, like my heart isn’t trying to beat its way out of my chest. Like I haven’t spent all day wondering if he’d ask me to stay. “Well, someone should make sure you don’t burn the place down.”

“Is that a yes?”

I nod, fighting back a grin that would give away just how happy his invitation makes me. “Yep. It’s a yes.”