Stripped Down

“Introduce him,” Angel says, and his hand shoots back to my elbow. “I’m gonna show Rose around the house.”

“No tour for me? I’m crushed.” Rory blows me a kiss and saunters off toward the bunkhouse. I’m not entirely sure how he knows where it is, but he seems confident and he’s in good hands. I should go with him and make sure things are good and smoothed over, but Angel guides me in the other direction.

“I know how to walk, thank you,” I tell him, yanking at my elbow.

He answers with a slow, wicked smile. “I try to be a gentleman at least once a week. You should be applauding my efforts at self-improvement.”

“You’re trying to make me do what you want,” I counter because, hello, I’m not stupid.

His smile deepens. “Darling, I can do more than one thing at a time. I’d be happy to show you.”

I bet. “I’m not falling for male wiles.”

“I’m hurt.” He starts toward the house, taking me with him. I think about digging in my heels just to make my point, but I do want to see his house. Especially if it comes with indoor plumbing—the RV’s “shower” is completely unsatisfying.

“I’m here temporarily. As soon as Auntie Dee’s is fit to live in, I’m moving there.”

“Got it,” he says and pulls the front door open.

Wow. The ranch house both is and isn’t what I expected of Angel. For starters, it’s new and Angel lives for family history. He’s probably a closet historian or archivist who obsessively reads ancestry websites just in case he’s missed something or someone challenges the admittedly impressive Mendoza family tree. The six months I spent on Blackhawk Ranch were spent in the old house because Angel hadn’t started this one yet. The new house is an impressive, adobe-style ranch that screams costly Southwestern design. It’s four thousand square feet of high-end construction starting with the fireplace made with creek stones that dominates the main space that stretches the entire length of the house.

Angel doesn’t fuck around when it comes to building a legacy.

This house will last and it’s clearly belongs to a man with plenty of money, a man who doesn’t have to stand ankle-deep in dust, fixing a watering trough, even if he chooses to do so. That’s Angel for you. He’d never sit back and wait for what he wanted, not when he had the option to go out and get it. I know the current success of the ranch is due in no small part to his herculean efforts. It’s an open secret in Lonesome that his father ran the place into the ground, and yet everywhere I turn now, I see signs of Angel’s success.

Angel gives me the basic tour, starting with the downstairs room, the laundry, and the kitchen. Those are all good landmarks to be familiar with. I’m not going to let him run me over, but I’m not adverse to using his Tide or raiding his fridge, either. Part of me wonders how he feels about having me here in his place. I sneak a look at him, but he doesn’t seem awkward or uncomfortable. He does, however, keep looking over at me. Maybe he’s interested in my reaction after all.

When he heads towards the sweeping staircase leading upstairs, however, I balk. Bedroom is simply another word for danger zone. The chemistry between Angel and me doesn’t need the added challenge of a nearby mattress, no matter how curious I am about what his personal space looks like.

“I’m sleeping in the RV,” I remind him.

He links his fingers through mine, his fingertips tickling my palm and teasing the sensitive hollow of skin between my thumb and my index finger. It feels amazing, and it’s probably why I let him lead me up the stairs.

“There’s always a room for you in this house,” he says. “You can choose to sleep outside in the RV if that’s what you need—or you can share the house with me.”

God, he’s stubborn.

“The house is amazing, but I’m sleeping in my own bed. In the RV,” I clarify, because he’s got that possessive look on his face. I’ve had guys come into my place of business and ask me to tattoo their name on their girlfriend, and I’ve been tempted to just go with the short version: mine. Angel’s got that same look, although I suspect he’s holding back.

“Your bedroom is here,” he says, ignoring me and pushing open a door at the end of the hall. I’m curious—sue me. I step inside, which is a mistake. Angel stands in the doorway, and now the only way out is past him. Naturally, the room is gorgeous.

“I’m still not sleeping in the house, Angel.”

“Why not?”

I give him a look. “You got all day?”