Wind River Wrangler (Wind River Valley #1)(15)
“Your father’s publisher?”
“No, they weren’t interested in women’s romance. I went to another publisher who was.”
“And did you mimic your father’s success?” He saw pink come to her cheeks.
“Yes, I did. My first book was a runaway best-seller. Sure surprised me. Surprised the publisher, but believe me, we were both happy about it.”
“And how many books have you got in print?” Roan watched the way her mouth moved as she chewed a small piece of the steak. It sent a pang of need through his lower body.
“I’m twenty-nine now, and I’ve been writing two books a year.” Until the last six months. Shiloh’s stomach tightened. She’d hit a dry spell. A writer’s block. And she was too ashamed to confide it to Roan, even though he seemed sincerely interested in her career. Just having him sitting next to her, the breadth of his shoulders, that craggy profile, those glittering, intelligent gray eyes, excited her as no man ever had. A couple of recently dried strands of Roan’s dark brown hair dipped over his furrowed brow. He ate heartily, the expression on his face one of a man enjoying everything he put into his mouth. Shiloh tried not to stare at his mouth.
Everything about him shouted to her that he was a man in charge. A leader. Not a follower.
“That’s impressive. I couldn’t write one book, much less two a year.” Roan wasn’t going to denigrate her writing romances. He could see she loved what she did. Following in her father’s footsteps, but still being original and an individual. He finished off his steak in no time. The basket of biscuits went pretty quickly too. The type of hard, physical work he did daily, he tucked away a good five to ten thousand calories a day to make it happen.
“I think,” Shiloh said, “it’s in your genes. I hear the argument that writers are made or they’re born with the skill. And I really feel at this point, it’s an inner thing, a genetic ability. I know my father passed it on to me.”
“But there are people who have no writers in a family and they get published.”
“Right,” Shiloh agreed, opening the warm biscuit, inhaling the odor of it and slathering it with butter. “I call it the storytelling gene. People who love to tell stories are frequently writers. And if they don’t publish, then you often find them in many different careers, but they still like to tell a story.” She looked over at him, her eyes warm. “Your face has a story to tell.”
Mouth quirking, Roan growled, “It’s a top-secret face, Darlin’.”
Heat collected in her lower body as he rasped out the endearment between his lips, although Shiloh thought it was probably done with tongue in cheek. She found herself wishing the endearment had been said with affection. “We all carry secrets,” Shiloh said. “There isn’t a person on this earth who doesn’t.”
Nodding, Roan wiped his mouth with the napkin. “On that, we can agree.” He rose and picked up the plates. “You going to eat your salad?”
“No. I’m stuffed. Thanks. Would you like me to wash the dishes? Help out in some way?”
“You can start carrying your share of the load around here tomorrow,” he said, taking them to the sink.
He had a nice butt. Everything about Roan Taggart was sexy, Shiloh decided, defeated by her hungry body. His walk was so damned confident. The word indomitable came to mind. Shiloh couldn’t imagine anyone standing in his way.
“Dessert?” he asked, turning toward her after he washed off the dishes and put them into the dishwasher.
“What do you have?”
He grinned sourly. Shiloh had perked up at the question and Roan bet she was probably a sweet eater. “I bought a coconut cream pie from the grocery store the other day. Interested?”
“Not right now. Maybe later?”
Shrugging, Roan brought the pie out of the fridge. “Do what you want.”
Shiloh got up and made them coffee. “Would you like a cup, Roan?” She liked calling him by his first name. She saw a silver glint in his eyes when his name had rolled off her tongue. It sent her heart skittering. The look he gave her made her burn. Swallowing against a dry throat, Shiloh lowered her lashes. Roan Taggart wanted her. It was a raw, hungry look. Clasping her hands, she didn’t feel threatened by him. Just . . . desired. How long had it been since she was honestly attracted to a man? Years. Too many of them.
“Pour me some, thanks.” He took his plate of pie to the table. Whether Roan wanted to admit it or not, Shiloh was easy to be around. She wasn’t a pest. She didn’t get underfoot. She wasn’t a nonstop talker, which drove him absolutely nuts. She listened. Asked intelligent questions. And she was a team player. Where she saw an opportunity to help out, she went for it. He thanked her as she set the steaming mug in front of him. Roan wasn’t about to tell her she was dessert to him. It was a good thing Shiloh couldn’t read minds.
Chapter Four
Roan snapped awake. It took a millisecond for him to key his hearing. Moonlight filtered weakly through the semi-opaque curtains pulled across both windows. His six senses were online and he quietly moved out of bed. He wore only a pair of dark blue cotton pajama bottoms, his upper body naked. Twisting the doorknob, he quietly opened the door. Slipping like a shadow into the darkened hall, he sensed someone moving around out in the kitchen. Shiloh? He glanced at the watch on his wrist. Three A.M.