Spurs 'n Surrender (Operation Cowboy Book 2)(10)
He’d called her that before, and each time her heart had leaped a little. But this time something warm and liquid slid through her. “I intend to.”
He laughed. “In that little bed? Not likely.”
When she closed the door and locked it for the night, she could only think about one thing—Wydell had noticed her bed. And now her mind was going to have a hell of a time disconnecting him from it.
*
Wydell hunched over the old workbench. His eyes were blurred with fatigue and his neck ached, but he was determined to finish a set of plans for Anya’s tiny home. When she’d shown him the photo on her tablet, he had to admit some ideas had popped into his mind. Ways to make more with less lumber. How to add storage. Done right it could cut down on utility bills, and everyone liked that.
As he thought of Anya’s built-in vase and handful of scrubby wildflowers, he chuckled softly. What a woman.
The corner of the barn was cozy at this time of night. Wydell suffered from insomnia, as did most men after war. He couldn’t close his eyes without gruesome images swirling in his mind. Sitting at the workbench on an old stool was the closest he got to comfort these days. It wasn’t much, but he’d had some of his best ideas at this time of night.
He used a fat pink eraser to rub away a mistake and redrew the line. While he constructed the home in his mind, he considered Anya’s reaction to each detail. She was opinionated for sure. Trouble was, she wasn’t exactly in touch with the common man.
She smelled of money and class while he just smelled like hard work and sometimes manure.
He sat back and eyed the plan. The yellow glow of an old desk lamp highlighted his work. Until you looked at the dimensions he’d carefully written, you wouldn’t know this was a tiny house. The front was charming with a gabled end and wide steps. But would it appeal to hipsters? What the hell was a hipster, anyway? His knowledge stopped at beards and Starbucks.
The other questions were how much money would it take to build and how much could they sell it for? More profit meant more houses. He planned to appease Anya for now, but he still thought new blood would want to live in something larger than a goldfish bowl.
He dropped his pencil and scrubbed his hands over his face. Exhaustion was creeping in with the sun. Typical. He often fell asleep before dawn, only to be roused by Brodie coming in for morning chores.
He suddenly wondered how Anya was sleeping. Her Airstream was probably half the size of her normal bedroom in whatever castle she lived in. And that nook at the back containing her mattress had looked small. Hell, she had more pillows than space. All bright colors. What he wanted was to see her tanned curves and her blonde hair spilling over crisp, white sheets.
Something stirred low in his stomach. Time to hit the hay before he thought about t too much. He stood and stretched with a juddering yawn. But as soon as he fell into his cot, he was wide awake, his mind racing. He was experienced enough with insomnia to realize the more he tried to slow it, the faster it went. So he just folded his arms beneath his head and rolled with it.
Hours later, after thinking up a second tiny house plan, feeding cattle and trying to stay out of the way of the newlywed couple, he found himself standing in front of Anya’s door.
She probably wasn’t awake yet. Didn’t debutantes sleep all day and party all night? Not much partying to do around Los Vista right now, though. He took a chance she’d fallen asleep early and knocked.
She came to the door within seconds. He had the insane urge to grab her and bear her back inside her trailer, his tongue in her mouth and her soft hips cradling his cock.
“Wydell.” She sounded surprised. “Back to insult my trailer so soon?”
“Yes. Can I come in so I can take a closer look at what I want to insult next?”
Her lips twitched. Her very glossy lips. In high school girls had worn thick fruit-flavored lip gloss, and he’d spent plenty of time dying to taste it. With Anya it was worse.
He tore his focus from her pretty pink pout. “Can I come in?”
She stepped aside far enough so he could get a run at the door. If he stopped partway through it, he was liable to get stuck. He launched himself inside. She gave him another of those lip twitches that was almost a smile.
Holding up the plans he’d drawn, he said, “Will these do?”
“Depends on if you’ve drawn something the size of a cracker. Let’s see.” As she breezed by him, a cloud of citrusy perfume flooded his senses. He couldn’t help but look at her backside—rounded and tight in skinny jeans. Her top was looser today, though, and he longed to gather the cloth on her spine and pull it taut to see her curves.
Shaking himself, he scuffled to the table and unrolled the plan. The first time he’d had trouble keeping the plans flat. This time he was better prepared. He withdrew a handful of rocks from his pocket to weight the corners, and Anya’s long brows met in the middle.
“What are those?”
Without replying, he showed her by setting each stone in the corners. Dirt crumbled off and he brushed away the grains.
“Hey! Stop that. You’re getting dirt all over the place.”
“Little dirt never hurts. Besides, you’re not in the pageant now.”
Her eyes opened wide and her jaw dropped. Gently, he settled a finger under her chin and shut her mouth. She jerked from his touch, but it was no use. Her skin had scalded him, and his body wasn’t going to forget the feel of her silky skin or fine bones anytime soon.