Page 67 of Then You Happened
“And are you getting closer to figuring out who Jack Sutton is?”
“A bit. He’s a man who needs to get back to basics and who needs to remember what his dad taught him—that horses are horses and cattle are cattle and land is land and it isn’t all that complicated so long as you respect them. A man who should have walked away from this place and the woman with a fiery temper and wild streak who lives here but who just couldn’t seem to . . .” The undercurrent that has hummed all night sparks to the surface. “And now doesn’t want to.”
19
TATE
Nerves rattle through me.
I wash one dish after another, more cognizant of the weight of Jack’s stare than I ever have been before.
But what happens next? How does one go from a serious conversation at dinner to what we both know is going to happen now that the meal is over?
“You can at least let me help,” Jack says.
“You bought the steaks.” I glance over my shoulder to where he’s leaning back, arm over the chair beside him as the finger of his other hand runs over his bottom lip. His shirt is dark with the cuffs rolled up to his forearms. His hair is styled with gel and looks darker than it normally does.
He cleans up well. Very well.
“Technically, you cooked since you grilled them too. I didn’t do much, so doing the dishes is the least I can do.”
“Humph.”
“And that sound means what exactly?”
“It means I’m not complaining about the view right now.”
The sponge I have on the plate in front of me falters, and a nervous laugh falls from my lips. I try to cover its obvious sound with an unladylike snort. “You mean a woman in the kitchen cleaning the dishes? Don’t expect the barefoot or pregnant part, Sutton.”
“Nah, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about the dishes.” There is shuffling at my back. “Just the woman standing there, Knox.”
I know he’s right behind me. I can sense him before his fingers graze over the nape of my neck and shift my hair to the side.
When the warmth of his breath feathers over my skin, every part of me freezes.
And aches.
And wants.
“Jack?” His name is a breathless syllable as he reaches arou
nd me and turns the faucet off.
“Hmmm?” he murmurs, and although we aren’t even touching, I can still feel the rumble of it.
When I turn, he’s inches from me and makes me aware of everything: the nearness of his lips, the wine on his breath, the warmth of his body. The anticipation is almost tangible in the air around us.
“My name is Tate,” I whisper in the silence.
“I know what it is.”
“Say it.”
His smile is slight, but his eyes are loaded with the same desire that has been rioting through me all night.
When I opened the front door to see him standing there in a button-up shirt and genuine smile. The expression on his face—eyes wide, lips lax, fingers itching to touch—when he admired the simple maxi dress I threw on.
When he took the bottle of wine from me, hands closing over mine and holding it there longer than is normal before pulling it away.
