The Rancher's Untamed Heart

"Plans should be kept, yeah, unless all parties change their mind. All parties had months ago, I think," I said, and grinned at him.

Clint reached out and flicked a strand of wet hair off of my face.

"I'll say," he murmured. "I could barely keep my hands off of you."

"You're officially encouraged to keep your hands on me," I said.

After our shower, we got out and grabbed towels from the pile on the edge of the tub, next to the shower. The separate tub and shower was something that I saw a lot in larger houses in this area, but still blew my mind a little.

Dry and wrapped in his soft towel, I turned to him.

“This is gorgeous,” I said, gesturing around me. “When was it started?”

“About a year before my mother died,” he said. “The rest of the house has been here for a few generations, but my father added on this master suite. Never used it, it wasn’t finished before my mother died, and he couldn’t bear to leave the room they shared.”

I winced. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s a good place now,” he said. “No need to look sad.”

“I wish I could have met your parents,” I said, suddenly. “They sound like good people.”

His smile had a touch of sadness, a little tightening of grief around the eyes.

“My mother was the best woman I’ve ever known, and if I’m half the man my father was, I’ll die proud,” he said, simply.

“What was your favorite thing to do with them?” I asked.

“I wish I could eat my mother’s tacos again,” he said. “She made them every Sunday night, and the ones I have made just aren’t the same.”

I nodded.

“What about your parents?” he asked.

“Oh, um,” I said. “We’re not as close. I wish we were, sometimes, but that’s just the way it is, you know?”

“They’re missing out,” he said, taking a robe off of a hook on the back of the bathroom door and presenting it to me, blushing a little.

It was just like the one it was hanging next to, soft-looking terry cloth with large pockets and a wide sash, only smaller, and a different color. The larger one was a deep green, and the one he was handing me was a brilliant shade of blue that I loved.

A stab of jealousy went through me for a moment. Was this robe from one of the other women he’d slept with? It was definitely too small to fit Clint, and it looked brand-new, not like a sentimental keepsake of his mother’s.

“I hope you like it,” he said. “I was going to wrap it up and give it to you in a few weeks, but I liked seeing it hang there.”

I took it, and it felt as soft and warm as the one I’d worn the one time I had stayed in a fancy hotel with a few girlfriends of mine. I’d threatened to steal that robe, but left it hanging where it was when we checked out.

“That’s sweet,” I told him. “I love it, it’s one of my favorite colors.”

“It matches your eyes,” he said. “I love your eyes. They’re the deepest blue I’ve ever seen on a real live person.”

“As opposed to a real dead person?” I said, flippantly.

He frowned a little. “Usually, in pictures, eyes like that are faked. Yours are the real deal.”

“Thank you,” I said, trying to be serious. “Thank you for everything. For the robe, and for saying such nice things, and for being good to me.”

“I want you to have whatever you want, if I can give it,” he said, face serious. He reached out and took his own robe off the hook.

“Clint,” I said, taking a deep breath.