Ride With Me (A Quaking Heart Novel - Book One)

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  Clint never took his eyes off Jessie as he loosened his grip and let her hand slide out from under his fingers, his every callous scraping against her soft skin. She stumbled back a step, then twisted away to dash back to the stove.

  A heated flush of anger rose up Clint's neck as he crooked his head toward Mabel and tried to keep his voice down. "She has been working all evening, Mabel, if you haven't noticed."

  "You decided to give up one gal for another, have you? Again?"

  "What the heck are you talking about?"

  "Seems to me you got one on the couch and are flirtin' with yet another one of my helpers."

  Clint dropped his voice to a low rumble near Mabel's ear. "Don't. Worry. About it."

  Clint didn't give her a chance to comment more before he was on his feet striding into the kitchen. He wondered why his legs had brought him here. For a moment he stood behind Jessica, examining her, unnoticed. She looked entirely too feminine with her ruffled apron and her skirts hanging loosely at those shapely calves, barely visible between short boots and skirt. So different from the other side of her—the tomboy type she normally portrayed, and which he'd come to know well.

  Her shiny hair hung in smooth waves at her upper-back. He edged closer, compelled to weave his fingers through it, when her scent hit his nostrils and he sniffed in the intoxicating bouquet.

  She spun around at the sound. "Oh!" Her gaze hit his. "Are you okay?"

  "Sure," he answered, not surprised her concern was of him.

  Clint hadn't been prepared for what clawed at his heart at the sight of Jessie working at the stove. She looked like a sweet little ranch wife cooking for her man. He found himself wondering what she'd look like dressed in only the apron. He shook his head, baffled by why he would ever go there. He couldn't seem to come to grips with why she affected him like this. He decided to test this growing need. A little more time around her and he was sure to cure himself of the problem.

  "Didn't—" His voice caught. He cleared his throat and started again. "Didn't take you long to learn how to cook these things. Yours are far better than Mabel's ever have been." He tried to casually look over her shoulder into the pan. "So, what's your secret?"

  She turned her face up to smile at him and something lurched in his stomach. "Do you need to know, when you have me to cook them for you?" As soon as the words were out she stiffened and her smile vanished. Dropping her gaze to the pan she began flipping them with a vengeance.

  He smiled and tilted his head so he could watch her sweet face fill with color. She always did spit out every thought on her mind.

  Waving a hand in front of her face, she said, "Whew. Warm in here." She glanced at him, his face inches from hers, laughed nervously, then turned back to her task. "You see . . . it's that I don't let them burn." She spoke into the pan. "Mabel doesn't stand here to watch them, is all."

  "Well, whatever it is you do, they're great. What can I do to help?"

  Her cute little brow quirked. "You would help?"

  He nodded.

  She smiled, and her eyes twinkled. "Okay. Grab the paper bag."

  He looked around, saw a tiny paper bag on the counter and lifted it with his thumb and forefinger. "This little thing?" he said, grinning.

  "Yes."

  "Okay. Now what?"

  "There's already flour, salt and pepper in it, so grab a handful of oysters and drop them in. Close the top. Shake. You'll soon find how simple this is, and then your praise for me will be moot."

  When she looked up at him again her face shown with such natural enthusiasm; so joyful, so pure of heart—that he couldn't quite take his eyes off her. Jessica made the first move. Her eyes dropped to the little bag his huge hand dwarfed.

  Unsure of himself for the first time in recent history, he advanced to the counter and fumbled with the bag. Trying to hold it open with one hand, he awkwardly scooped up a handful of oysters and dropped them in.

  She started to giggle as she watched him wrestle with the task.

  "Why are you laughing?" he asked as he frowned in concentration. But soon her contagious laughter brought his own chuckle to the surface.

  "It's just something to see woman's work being done by the beautiful foreman—"

  "Beautiful?" he interrupted, barking out a laugh. Though called a lot of things pertaining to good looks, he'd never been called that before.

  Her head snapped up to look at him. Her eyes were twice their size and her mouth formed an 'O'. "Did I just say what I think I did?"

  He couldn't hold back. The expression on her face was so delightful, and so surprised that he exploded into laughter. She flushed all the way to the tips of her ears. Still laughing he gave her a playful bump with his hips—harder than he'd intended. It displaced her. She would have crashed into the counter if he hadn't swung an arm around her waist and hitched her to him.

  Time stood still with her secured tightly to his hip. She sucked in a breath, so delicate it sounded more like dove wings than shock. But the shock was all his, because a prickle had begun in his fingertips and flamed all the way to his toes, leaving his bones vibrating to a tune he couldn't hear. Jessica Harper, armed with nothing more than a greasy spatula in one hand and a breaded oyster in the other, had just blown a hole through his armor. He ought to step away. Needed to. But he found himself drawn closer in.

  Damp wisps of hair had curled tightly along her temples from the heat of the stove. He followed those little wisps back to her dainty ears. Dropping the little bag on the counter he reached up to lift one damp lock and hook it behind her ear.

  He shouldn't have touched. Yet, the need to touch more called to him. He heeded that call and ran his knuckles down the soft skin of her cheek. "So incredibly soft . . ." he said with throaty quietness.

  "That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me," she whispered.

  He'd barely heard. "Beautiful, and now sweet?" he whispered back.

  The desire to tease her left him as he stroked the pad of his thumb over her full lower lip. She gasped, and his control slipped. If they were alone he'd kiss her. Instead he labored to bring his gaze upward. Her eyes had grown larger and were searching the depths of his. An emotion drove forth. One he'd never had for a woman and refused to name. And that made fury start to take hold.

  Don't look at me like that, he tried to convey with his eyes. I'll regain my sanity when I let loose of you. Her lips parted again as if to speak, and his sanity sprouted wings. The need to kiss her rose beyond his ability to resist. He caught her face in his palms. Focused on her soft mouth. Lowered his head.

  Footsteps. Crossing the great room. Before their lips had brushed, he stopped. Jerked his head up to listen.

  Jessica sprang out of his arms and rotated to the stove.

  Clint glared at Jessie's back—at the shiny hair curling at her spine, the big apron bow at her middle, her hem tapping at soft legs. He felt empty . . . and hungry . . . and madder than hops she had turned away from him. He wanted to grab her back, complete their mating of lips, find out what that made him feel, then strip those feelings down to bare bone, and take a good hard look. Figure out what was happening to him.

  His unwanted visitor stepped into the kitchen, and he turned to greet her.

  "I'd like to go now," Veronica said in a firm voice.

  Clint's heart sank at that announcement. She was right. He needed to take her home. First, he needed to say goodbye to Jessie.

  When Clint revolved back to Jessie, he found her staring up at him, wide-eyes shimmering. Her lips had flattened. She was confused, and hurting, and if he read her right, a bit exasperated. He felt like a heel, but there was nothing to be done about it.

  Forcing the words past his grim mouth, he said, "Thanks for the great meal, Jessie."