Page 12 of Enticed
“Ah, but we wouldn’t have thehand flexif it wasn’t for the genius and improvisation of Matthew Macfadyen,” I countered, and her breath hitched.
“You know about the hand flex?” she asked, her voice wistful.
“Any man who doesn’t understand the hand flex and why it was such a pivotal scene has zero emotional intelligence and isn’t worth your time.” The words were out before I could take them back. Her gaze flicked up to where my hand rested just above her head, and I realized my mistake. I’d gotten too close again, revealed too much. I needed to pull back before I crossed the point of no return.
“What are you guys talking about?” Rory asked as I retreated back a step and then another. I chanced a glance at her, hoping she hadn’t sensed the tension brewing between Jasmine and me. Her face was scrunched up in confusion, but there was no suspicion in her gaze.
“Just some old movie from before you were born,” I replied nonchalantly.
“Oh, that sounds kind of boring,” she replied, nose wrinkled in distaste. The abject horror on Jasmine’s face was the comedic relief I needed. I let out a bark of laughter, and she shot me a glare. Her expression softened when she faced my daughter, though. Throwing her free arm around Rory’s shoulders, she turned to lead her to the barn.
“One of these days, kid, I’m going to change your mind,” Jasmine said before disappearing out of sight.
CHAPTER TEN
JASMINE
Inever understood the fascination with single dads or why some women claimed their ovaries exploded when they saw a good-looking guy with a kid.
Until now.
Cowboy Gabe was hot, but Daddy Gabe was next level. I got to see it in action over the weekend since he and Rory spent several hours at the ranch between Saturday and Sunday, and it only made me crush on him harder. It was so heartwarming watching him interact with his daughter. He was playful and patient, gentle and attentive. His love for her was undeniable. I couldn’t help but swoon over this version of him.
It was a shame he only got her every other weekend. He was clearly an involved parent who was dedicated to being a good father. When I asked him why he didn’t get her more—a question I clearly blurted out without thinking, then immediately wanted to take it back—he explained it was only like that during the school year to provide her with a consistent routine. Once summer came, he would have her for two weeks at a time. The way his eyes lit up when he said that made my chest flutter and brought a smile to my lips.
By the time they left Sunday evening, Rory had met my whole family. My nephew Asher had taken to her immediately and cried when she hugged him goodbye. She promised to come back, and that placated him for the time being.
“I think I’m going to start using Petunia for more riding lessons. She really perked up when Rory was riding her,” I said one morning at breakfast. “I think she likes kids.”
“That’s a great idea,” my mom agreed as she pulled a sheet of biscuits from the oven. “She needs to be ridden more. I haven’t had much time to take her out myself, and I know you’ve been busy with training.” She was right. Petunia was a small horse, so Mom and I were the only ones in our family who rode her, but Mom was too busy being the brains of our operation, handling the finances, marketing, etc. to do much riding these days. And I had a full schedule on top of practicing with Juniper, so I didn’t have any time to spare. Everyone else was too heavy, but she’d be perfect for the kids I gave riding lessons.
Steam rose from the hot biscuits as Mom split them in half. I added strips of bacon, fried eggs, and slices of cheese to each before wrapping them in parchment paper. The warm, buttery scent of the biscuits made my mouth water. Mentally calculating the amount of carbs in each sandwich, I pulled out my insulin pump and gave myself a bolus. This was the part I struggled with most when I was first diagnosed. I hadn’t been able to manage my own pump until I was fifteen because I’d miscalculate and give myself too much or too little insulin to cover what I ate. Now it was like second nature. I knew the carb content of every food item in our kitchen and read nutrition labels religiously. These days, my only challenge was forgetting to eat when I got busy and lost track of time, which admittedly was happening more often since I was training hard in preparation for my first race.
“Mornin’, Mama,” Rowan said as he entered the kitchen. He bent down to press a kiss to our mom’s cheek like he did every morning before swiping a sandwich off the counter.
“Mornin’, baby,” she replied as she poured a cup of coffee and added a splash of cream. My dad came into the kitchen next and wrapped his arms around her waist from behind.
“Mmm, something smells good,” he said, pressing a kiss to her hair. Then he whispered something in her ear that made her giggle. I was torn between being envious and wanting to vomit. On one hand … ew. They were myparents. On the other, I wanted what they had. One day, I wanted to be loved the way my parents loved each other. I wanted little love notes like the ones Dad left for her on her computer or tucked inside whatever book she was reading at the time. All I could seem to get were the typical “you up?” or “wyd?” texts from the fuckboys I had regrettably given even a moment of my attention. When they failed to get in my pants, they took it as a challenge and just kept trying until I finally blocked them. The dating pool around here was more like the holding tank of a porta potty that’d been sitting in the hot sun all summer.
Dad came over and greeted me next, placing a kiss atop my head before ruffling my hair. “Mornin’, Spunk,” he said, taking the seat next to me. I rolled my eyes at his use of my childhood nickname, but a smile curved my lips. It had started out as Spunky due to my feisty personality, but he shortened it to Spunk years ago. He didn’t use it as much these days, but when he did, it incited a sense of nostalgia that warmed my chest.
“Mornin’, Pops,” I replied, hooking an arm around his neck and giving him a noogie in retaliation for messing up my braid. Mom had a strict no hats at the table rule, so he was vulnerable to my attack. Dad chuckled and smoothed his hand over his hair before digging into his breakfast.
He checked in with Rowan regarding the new foal our champion thoroughbred sired. Our racehorse breeding and training program was the most lucrative part of our ranch. Stud fees alone kept the lights on around here.
“How’s Juniper looking? She ready for racing season?” he asked, turning to me.
“She’s looking good. I think we’re going to hit our stride this year.” She and I got better and better every racing season. This was the year we would prove ourselves and show the world we were ready for the pro circuit.
“Good,” Dad said with an approving nod. “You’ve worked hard for this. If anyone deserves success, it’s you.”
“Thanks, Pops,” I replied, leaning in to rest my head on his shoulder. When we were finished and all the plates were cleared away, I picked up the tray containing the wrapped breakfast sandwiches and tossed a bunch of bananas on it.
“Want me to take these down to the bunkhouse?” I asked. We only had a few ranch hands who stayed on site, but Mom always tried to make sure they were fed.
“Sure, baby, that’d be great,” Mom replied, giving me a grateful smile.
“Make sure you stop by the rescue barn so you can give one to Gabe. He got an early start this morning, so I doubt he’s had breakfast,” Dad said from the door as he slipped on his cowboy hat. Butterflies erupted in my stomach at the thought of seeing Gabe again. It was kind of pathetic the way my heart raced at the mere mention of his name.
