Page 6 of Cowboy Elite 2: Mike

But God help her, cowboy flirtations and a goat mauling aside, this kitchen smelled like home.

She pressed her palm flat against the cool countertop, resisting the urge to get as close to Mike Watkins as she could. She didn’t know this man, but something deep inside told her she’d be safe with him.

2

Morning on the ranch came at a volume Olivia Langford—now Liv Ramsey—did not approve of.

The rooster outside her window had started crowing a full hour before sunrise, like it had a personal vendetta against sleep. She finally cracked open one eye, then the other, and watched pink light spill across the Texas horizon through her half-open window.

Dogs barked in a dozen different pitches as Heather's early training session kicked off near the barn. Beyond that, the steady clop of hooves, the metallic crank of the well pump, distant hammering, and the smell of something both meaty and ridiculously good drifted up through the windowpanes.

"Slower pace my ass," she muttered, squinting at the sky. Every living thing with vocal cords seemed determined to out-holler the rest.

Not that she was a stranger to early mornings. She'd had plenty of those at Crème & Crumble. But owning her own place meant she got to pick her hours. She'd kind of hoped a ranch in the middle of nowhere would mean a little more sleep and a little less livestock commentary.

She dressed quickly in dark jeans, sneakers and a soft gray Henley that didn't scream city girl quite as loud as the rest of her wardrobe. She braided her blonde hair down her back, swiped on a little concealer and lip gloss, then took a breath.

Fake it 'til you bake it.

Down in the kitchen, the day was already in full swing.

Bells jingled above the pantry door as she stepped through in search of an apron. Two teenage boys were washing produce at the big farmhouse sink, Arletta stood at the cutting board waging war on a pile of onions, and Mike Watkins held court at the cast-iron griddle like a general commanding breakfast.

Peppery sausage, butter going brown in a skillet, and enough garlic to ward off every vampire in Texas hit her all at once.

Her stomach growled. Loud.

She grabbed the apron hanging by the flour station and tied it quickly, hoping no one heard.

"Those roosters are something else," she said, aiming for casual. "Sounded like a banjo festival out there."

Joe Watkins, sprawled at the kitchen table with a laptop open and a cup of coffee the size of a soup bowl, let out a bark of laughter. "You should've been here during lambing season. Bagpipes and drama, sunrise to sundown."

She'd met all of Mike's brothers last night at dinner. Joe was the oldest and the money guy. Lyle, the veterinarian, was married to Heather and together they were raising his Goddaughter, Charlotte. And Kenny was the quiet one who worked with the horses and looked like he could disappear into shadows if he wanted to. They were all a little intimidating in that capable, too-handsome, seen-some-things kind of way.

She was surrounded by cowboys. And she didn't know a single thing about any of it.

Mike tipped his chin toward the far counter. "Saved the baker's corner for you. Don't cross the yellow line, Ramsey."

Liv blinked. "Is the yellow line metaphorical, or do I need to bring painter's tape?"

"Only if you plan on rearranging my pantry." He flipped something on the griddle without looking. "You can get creative with cinnamon rolls, but you stay out of my chili pot."

"Deal."

They fell into a rhythm. Mike moved around the kitchen with the kind of ease that came from years of practice—hands quick, instincts sharp, every motion efficient. Watching him work was like watching someone speak a language she understood but had never quite mastered.

Liv slid into her corner and started pulling ingredients. She'd prepped a batch of biscuit dough last night when she couldn't sleep, using buttermilk, cold butter, and a new trick with a molasses glaze she'd been wanting to try.

Mike had said they were cooking for fifteen people. Six guests, his brothers, Heather, Charlotte, and a couple of wranglers out in the bunkhouse.

She was lining up baking sheets when she noticed a plastic tub of pre-mixed dough sitting near her station.

"What's this?" she asked.

"House-made. Ready to go," Mike said without looking up. "Saves time. Comes out hot, fluffy, dependable. I serve 'em every morning."

"I'd like to use my own recipe if that's all right," Liv said carefully. "I've already got dough chilling. Different from yesterday's batch, but I think your guests will like it."