Summertime on the Ranch, Carolyn Brown [ebook reader with highlighter txt] 📗

“It’s misery,” he said.

“No, it’s a four-letter word.” She giggled.

“Amen to that, and Nana would wash my mouth out with soap for saying those kinds of words.” He finished making salads in two small bowls and put them on the table. Then he got out a sharp knife and sliced half the loaf of bread.

When he reached for two wineglasses, his hip bumped against hers. “Sorry about that.”

“I’m not,” she muttered as she whipped around and laced her arms around his neck. “Did you feel some electricity between us?”

“Honey, I feel the chemistry between us every time we’re in the same room,” he admitted as his lips found hers in a long, steamy kiss. “I’ve dreamed about kissing you all day,” he whispered when the kiss ended.

“Did it live up to your expectations?” she asked.

“One hundred and fifty percent.” He gave her a quick peck on the forehead, picked up the glasses, and took them to the table.

Every nerve ending in her whole body hummed with desire. Good old common sense told her that more than sharing a few kisses was out of the question. That didn’t mean she didn’t want to forget about wine, vodka-infused watermelon, and even supper and slowly undress him on the way to the bedroom.

The noodles took longer to cook than the sauce, but the Alfredo was ready in fifteen minutes. She carried the skillet to the table and set it on a hot pad. A fancy bowl would have gone better with the pretty table Dalton had set, but the cast iron would keep the food hot longer.

He pulled out a chair for her and then poured the wine. “Are you going to say grace, or am I?”

“It’s your house, so it’s your call,” she told him. “Do you always pray?”

“Yep,” he answered as he took her hand in his. “I grew up in a household that said grace before every meal, and it just don’t seem right not to give thanks.”

“Me too.” She bowed her head.

He said a simple prayer and then held up his wineglass. “To us.”

She picked up her glass and touched his. “To us.”

By the time supper was over, they’d finished the first bottle of wine. As Becca had bragged earlier, she could hold her liquor as well as any good Irishwoman, but she’d never had good, aged watermelon wine. When she got up to help clear the table, the room did a couple of spins. She finally got it under control by holding on to the counter for just a minute.

“All right,” Dalton said when he put the last plate in the dishwasher. “Great supper. Good wine. Amazing company. Now let’s make cookies and pop open that second bottle of wine. I’ve got a confession. I thought wine was for sissies until Rye introduced me to watermelon wine. I liked it from the beginning, but I like this stuff even better.” He thumped the watermelon on the counter, removed the empty vodka bottle, and put the plug he had cut out of the melon back in place. “And one more confession… I talk a lot when I get a good buzz going.”

The door is open. Don’t lose the opportunity. Grammie’s voice was loud and clear in Becca’s mind even if she did have a little buzz going on in her own head. If he’s got a mind to talk, then ask questions.

“So, you are a happy drunk, not a mean one?” she asked.

He chuckled as he got out the ingredients to make sugar cookies. “I usually stop drinking after a little buzz. I don’t like to be drunk, and I hate hangovers.” He laid his phone on the counter and touched the screen. “A little music,” he said as Garth Brooks sang “The River.”

The lyrics said something about standing on the shoreline and letting the waters run by. Becca nodded in agreement when Garth sang about rough waters. “What made you choose this song?”

“I like that line that says I’ll never reach my destination if I don’t try,” he said. “I like you, Becca McKay.” He leaned over the container of flour and kissed her on the tip of the nose. “I have to try to make you like me back, even if I have to do what the song says and sail my vessel until the river runs dry.”

“I don’t think you’ll have to try until the Red River is completely dry,” she whispered.

“Good.” He grinned. “I was worried about that.”

“You are a charmer,” she said.

“Nana told me when I was just a little boy that good looks would take me far in life, but charm would get me whatever I wanted,” he told her.

“And has it?” She measured out the flour and then cut a stick of butter into it.

“Until you came into my life,” he said. “I thought you were immune to my sweet-talkin’.”

“I had to get the past out of my system before I could…” She paused and locked eyes with him. “Are you just tryin’ to get me into bed, or are you serious about a long-term relationship?”

“Darlin’, I’m as serious as a cowboy tryin’ to hang onto a buckin’ bull for eight seconds,” he said.

That might not sound like a declaration to some women, but Becca sure understood what he was saying.

“Okay, then,” she said. “I believe you.”

“Thank you for that. I don’t lie, Becca. I will tell you the truth, even if it hurts me to do it,” he said as he put the first pan of cookies into the oven.

She refilled their wineglasses and took a sip. “I’m pretty much the same. That might have been part of my problem in Nashville. I wasn’t willing to do anything for a contract. If I couldn’t get one with my singing, I damn sure didn’t want one if it meant I had to fall on my back or drop down on my knees.”

Dalton chuckled. “You are pretty straightforward, aren’t you?”

“Yep, it’s the