The Rancher's Bride. Pamela Britton

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СКАЧАТЬ away,” she said, rubbing her eyes. She’d slept all night? And half an afternoon of the day before. Had she been that exhausted?

      Apparently so.

      “Maybe you should eat something. I left my mom’s quiche on the kitchen table.”

      “No. I’m fine.” She was actually famished, she suddenly realized. “Thanks for waking me up. I’ll be dressed in just a minute, but don’t wait for me. I can walk to work.”

      “Work?” Ryan frowned again. “You don’t have to work today. You’re not slated to start until Monday. It’s Friday. Eat your breakfast.”

      He turned way.

      “I’ll be at the office in fifteen minutes.”

      He glanced back at her, his gaze sliding downward, only to pause for a moment. Color bloomed on her cheeks because she could feel cool air on her legs, knew the blanket covered little more than her upper thighs and torso.

      “Eat your breakfast,” he repeated, that gaze of his doing something, a something that caused her whole body to react in a way that it really shouldn’t.

      “My mom won’t be happy if you don’t.”

      Something flickered, something heated and dark that turned his aqua-colored eyes a deep green.

      He turned away again.

      She felt the cover slip, and Jorie realized she’d been standing there, gawking… .

      No, going gooey.

      The door closed, bringing her back to earth. She blinked.

      Not gooey, just famished. She hadn’t had any dinner the night before. No lunch, either. Maybe even not any breakfast.

      Quiche.

      She hitched the cover up, told herself she’d been imagining whatever she saw, and strode to the 1960s-style kitchen.

      There it was, the quiche, sitting on the table in all its glory, a golden stream of light illuminating its flaky depths as if it was a gift from God.

      Not really.

      It just seemed that way because she was so damn hungry, and she wanted to scarf that quiche down more than anything she’d ever wanted in her life—her stomach actually growled at the thought.

      “To hell with it.”

      She would go to the office. She would eat the quiche later, at her desk.

      She turned, thankful that she’d had the foresight to lay out her clothes the night before, because it suddenly became important to catch him before he left.

      She washed up and dressed in record time, ran to the floor-length mirror in the corner of the room, checked her appearance to ensure the black slacks and off-white button-down blouse weren’t crooked, then ran to the door. She grabbed a brush along the way, all the while listening for the sound of his truck starting up. Nothing. He must have gone to his own house. She almost hurried past the quiche, but she ran back and grabbed the pastry. Maybe she’d eat on the way. No sense in passing out at his feet. She’d use her hands if she had to—

      An engine roared to life.

      “Wait!” she shouted.

      She jammed a finger on the doorknob, cursed, almost dropped the quiche and burst out the front door so fast she left one of her heels behind.

      “Damn it.”

      She darted back to get it, couldn’t manage to get her foot in, gave up, kicked the other one off, scooped them both up, and somehow managed to balance her heels, her quiche and her brush the whole time she ran toward his still idling truck.

      “Don’t go,” she called, her loose hair streaming out behind her.

      She could see him sitting inside, and then she all but skidded to a stop.

      The passenger door was open.

      He wasn’t about to leave, he was waiting for her.

      “Son of a—”

      He’d known she’d race to catch up to him. Had somehow so anticipated her next move that he now sat in the driver’s seat, head leaned back against the headrest, hat tipped low over his closed eyes.

      She slowly approached. When she drew near the open door he glanced over at her. “Took you long enough.”

      Chapter Four

      She’d covered those damn sexy legs of hers with slacks.

      She would look even better in jeans.

      Stop thinking about her legs.

      Ryan leaned forward, fixed his hat and put his truck in gear.

      “You didn’t have to wait.”

      “No,” he said. “I didn’t.”

      He wasn’t entirely certain why he had waited. He hadn’t even been certain she’d really get dressed and head to the office. A lot of people would have taken the opportunity to take the day off, and yet somehow he’d known she wasn’t the type.

      “Thank you.”

      He glanced over at her again. She looked ready for church in her no-frills button-down blouse and slacks. Gorgeous without even trying. He liked that about her, liked how she looked with her hair loose. He’d liked the way she’d looked standing before him, too, shapely legs exposed to his view, that frickin’ bedspread wrapped around her body as if she was a countrified version of the Statue of Liberty.

      Enough.

      He rolled his window down, grateful for the fresh burst of morning air that quickly cooled his overheated cheeks.

      Your cheeks aren’t the only part that’s hot.

      “You going to eat that quiche or just stare at it?” he asked as he thrust his truck in reverse.

      She did keep peeking glances at it, her tongue flicking out and licking her lower lip as if she was contemplating the idea of simply burying her face into the middle of it.

      “I don’t have a fork,” she said with all the morose sadness of a little girl missing her Barbie doll.

      “Use your hands,” he said, putting the gearshift into First and mashing down the pedal a little too hard. A couple seconds later they crested the small hill, Ryan glancing toward his mom’s house, the one he’d grown up in but had abandoned when he was old enough to want his independence and to bring a woman home. The lights were on in the kitchen, a sure sign she was up, no doubt plotting other ways to make his life hell.

      “I can’t use my hands.”

      And despite his sour mood, he found himself on the verge of a chuckle. It wasn’t funny, but the way she almost wailed the words СКАЧАТЬ