Heartless (Chestnut Springs, #2)(19)

There’s something freeing in just . . . letting it go.

“It’s fine. I won’t tell anyone you made a joke. I’ll get you an autograph and keep your reputation as The World’s Grumpiest Rancher completely intact.”

“Willa, you’re making me regret hiring you.”

She points at me. “Yes. Exactly. What joke? No jokes here.”

She’s carefree. She’s funny. She’s got a smart sense of humor that I like even though I refuse to show it. And she spends the next twenty minutes telling me stories about growing up as the child of a household name. She talks and I listen. And now and then, when one of us shifts in the small hot tub, our feet brush.

It’s innocent contact. Or at least it should be. We don’t look at each other when it happens. I’m afraid to look at her too closely if I’m being honest.

But it still sends sparks up my legs.

And when we get out, I do the gentlemanly thing and offer her a hand so that she doesn’t slip.

But that’s just before I do the distinctly ungentlemanly thing where I let my eyes ravage her tight body. I soak up every curve and try to burn it into my mind so that I never feel the urge to devour the sight of her like this again.

I imagine her wearing those simple black panties that are still in my kitchen drawer.

My dick swells fast and hard enough that I wrap a towel around myself and disappear inside without saying goodnight.

Because I’m just so fucking gentlemanly.





8





Willa





Willa: I can’t believe you didn’t tell Cade I’m a bartender and not some professional Mary Poppins.

Summer: He was being insane about the entire process. You’re perfect for the job. Luke is gonna love you.

Willa: OBVIOUSLY. I’m very loveable. Unless your name is Cade Eaton. Then I’m the object of all your exaggerated scowling.

Summer: He has different scowls. Haven’t you figured that out yet?

Willa: That’s insane. I’m not paid enough to decipher a man’s scowls. Here’s the new deal. If your shitty version of matchmaker doesn’t work out, you’re the new nanny. End of story. And you’re going to do it with a smile. They need help.

Summer: Adorable. You’re already protective.





The screen door bangs shut loudly, which means Cade is home. Crabby Cade stomping in after a long day of doing god knows what with a bunch of cows and cowboys.

“Welcome home, Master Cade,” I announce with a flourish as he walks into the kitchen, shooting me a scowl. An annoyed scowl?

“What are you doing? And why are you calling me that?” Cade’s voice rumbles dangerously.

“Stirring the spaghetti sauce that the young Padawan requested, I am.” Ask stupid questions, get stupid answers. He can clearly see that I’m moving a spoon around in a pot full of Bolognese sauce.

He glowers at me like I’m the least funny person he’s ever met. “And I’m talking like this because it’s hard to get out of character after playing Star Wars all afternoon.”

“You’re not supposed to cook dinner.” His fingers rap against the marble countertop, but his eyes stay fixed on the pot. Lately it’s like he totally avoids looking at me.

“The force is just too strong with me in culinary arts. Young Luke has announced that my cooking is superior to yours.” I smirk at him, getting far too much enjoyment out of needling him, especially since I know he loves to cook and is damn good at it.

The manly man across from me just scoffs, finally lifting his eyes. “He did not.”

“He did.”

His arms cross petulantly. “I don’t believe you.”

I smile prettily. “Okay, Darth Cade.”

At that moment, Luke blasts into the kitchen from washing up. “No! I want dad to be Jar Jar Binks!”

Cade’s forehead wrinkles and he appears genuinely confused. “What the hell is a Jar Jar Binks?”

Luke and I dissolve into a fit of giggles. Cade ignores us and removes the spoon from my hand, dips it in the pot, before lifting it to his lips for a sample. His only reaction is a low grumble. Which is practically a five-star review coming from him.





“What is all that laundry doing on my bed?”

It seems like every day I do something helpful around the house, and Cade finds a way to complain about it, like I’ve gravely offended him.

I pop a chip into my mouth and don’t bother looking at him from where I’m sprawled on the couch. I already know he’s scowling. I practically see that expression on the back of my eyelids every night when I try to fall asleep.

“I did a couple of loads today and wasn’t sure where it all went.”

“You’re not supposed to do my laundry.”

“Well, you’re not supposed to interrupt me watching Gossip Girl reruns. But here we are.”

“I don’t need you to do my laundry.”

I sit up with a deep sigh. “Okay. We’re really fixating on that? It was some towels and a few sweaters. Not your tight boxers. So let’s just cool our jets, yeah? They were already in the basket, and I’m not lazy, so I tossed them in the washer. Not a big deal. No need to put me on death row over it.”