The Rancher's Rules

If grown men could look as innocent as newborn babes, then he should have had a pacifier.

“Isn’t it?”

He placed two plates on the table. One piled high with bacon, eggs, hash browns and apple slices. The other identical except, without the crispy strips of bacon. “Sit down and eat before the food gets cold.”

She sat. “It can’t get any colder than I am.”

“Stop whining. If you don’t eat and get a move on, you’ll be late for the last day of school.”

Her gaze skittered to the window. Bright sunlight reflected almost blindingly off the snow. “You’re right.”

She took a big bite of her hash browns and nearly spat them out. Groping for her coffee, she took a huge gulp, scalding her tongue in the process. She stood up, knocking her chair back, and weaved like a drunk toward the sink.

Grant looked up from his own rapidly disappearing breakfast and asked, “Are you okay? Something wrong with the food?”

Her hand gripping her throat, she choked out the word “water.”

He jumped up and grabbed a glass from the cupboard. He filled it with water from the tap and handed it to her. She gulped it down and took several deep breaths before turning to face Grant. “What did you use to season the potatoes? Dried jabañero peppers?”

“A little of this, a little of that. You know I cook by the seat of my pants.”

She wasn’t buying it. Giving him a look that had sent five-year-olds scampering for cover, Zoe advanced on Grant. “What did you put in my breakfast?”

He did not appear intimidated. “It’s a little spicy, but you don’t have time to savor your food this morning anyway.”

“What does that have to do with…?” She let her voice trail off. Understanding came like air rushing from a balloon. “You didn’t want me savoring my food?”

His cheeks took on a wind-burned look, although he had not yet been outside. “Like I said, you don’t have time.”

Right. It had nothing to do with his response to her and the asparagus the night before. “Whatever you say. Are the eggs similarly spiced?”

He shrugged.

Great.

Grabbing the apple slices from her plate, she carried them to the sink and rinsed them off. She was not taking any chances. She left the kitchen, munching on her apple, without another word.

CHAPTER FIVE

GRANT watched Zoe leave the kitchen and his appetite went with her. He’d woken that morning thinking she needed payback for dinner the night before. He’d worked out around two a.m. that there’d been nothing innocent in the way she’d eaten. He’d known her practically her whole life, and she did not eat that sensually.

He didn’t know what had gotten her dander up—maybe the comment about him not minding other women liking his kisses—but whatever it had been, she’d set out to prove she could make him uncomfortable. And she’d succeeded. In spades. This morning it had been his turn, but now he felt like a skunk.

He picked up the plates and scraped the food into the garbage. Feeling guilty, he toasted her a bagel and slathered it with her favorite blackberry honey. He finished cleaning up the kitchen, washing the dishes. He had just rinsed the last plate when Zoe came storming in.

White terry cloth barely concealed the curves he had spent the entire night trying to forget. Her hair still had soap bubbles in it. Water trickled down her neck to disappear in the cleavage at the top of her towel. Grant thought seriously about opening a few windows. He needed air—cold air—and he needed it now.

Nothing competed with the expression in her eyes, though. He could see murder, mayhem and his own demise in her usually sweet-tempered eyes.

She slammed her hand down on the counter next to him. “So it’s not enough that you set your thermostat to arctic temperatures and freeze me to death.” She moved so close he could see the sudsy foam drying around her temples. “And then you spice my food with enough hot stuff to permanently maim my tastebuds.”

She reached around him, but the sight of Zoe nearly naked had Grant paralyzed. If she was going for the cast-iron skillet, he was powerless to stop her. Her hand came back around and she waved a recently washed plate in his face.

“This is the last straw.”

He stared down at the plate and could not fathom what had her so furious she would come storming out of the shower with soap still in her hair.

“I cannot believe you would stoop to washing the dishes while I was in the shower.” She punctuated each word with a shove to his midsection with the offending plate.

Sudden comprehension made him smile. Big mistake.

“You think this is funny?” She nearly shrieked the words.