Free The Rancher's Second Chance by Victoria James

said, his voice low and tinged with something that sounded like respect.
    She exhaled the breath she’d been holding. “Not a big deal.”
    He was silent for a moment. “It is a big deal.”
    She shrugged again, uncomfortable with where this conversation was going. She didn’t want him to start probing. She needed to talk about something else. “My ankle is feeling much better.” She pulled it off his leg and curled her legs on the couch.
    He stood and walked over to the fridge, placing the ice pack back in the freezer. “I’ll reapply that in twenty minutes.”
    “Thank you.”
    He gave her a short nod, and she forced herself to maintain eye contact as he stood in front of her looking like some magazine centerfold. Only there was a personality to him and heart. A heck of a lot of heart.
    “I bet the view from that window is gorgeous during the day.”
    He gave a short nod and sat back down beside her. “It is. I picked that spot for it because of the view of the mountains.”
    “It’s very…private.”
    Silence again. “I wanted a place of my own. I never had a problem living at the ranch, but after Sarah died everyone would watch me twenty-four-seven and I got tired of pretending I was fine. Here I could just be myself.”
    Her stomach dropped, and she turned to look at him. He was staring at the fire, his profile all he offered. She stared at the lean, well-defined lines of his face. She didn’t know what to say. He finished off the whiskey in his glass and her mouth went dry as she watched him swallow. He motioned for the bottle. She handed it over, and maybe she was imagining things, but it felt like his fingers lingered for a moment on hers. But when she looked over at him, he wasn’t looking at her at all. He poured himself another glass and handed her the bottle. She took a long swig and cursed her overactive imagination. Of course his fingers didn’t linger on her hand. Why would they?
    “Well, it’s very mountain-mannish,” she said, trying to sound neutral.
    His deep laughter brought a smile to her face. “Not your style?”
    “It does have sort of a rustic charm…”
    His bark of laughter cut her off, and she looked at him from the corner of her eye.
    “It’s a guy place. No shaving, cooking, showering.”
    “Ew.”
    “Right. Exactly. I just eat jerky and drink whiskey.”
    “No.” She closed her eyes. He was ruining all her fantasies about him.
    “Yup. And I don’t have to worry about smiling at anyone.”
    She gave him a pointed look. “You smile?”
    Again that laugh, and this time he even tilted his head back on the back of the sofa. Good God, why had she mentioned smiling? She had never seen him really laugh. She looked over at him and then turned away hastily. He was paying her no attention. The laughter seemed to transform him. Rippling muscle moved, lines around his eyes creased, and she was on the side of the damn dimple that had resurfaced. It was like watching the summer sky come alive with fireworks.
    “What’s wrong?” he asked, his laughter subsiding.
    “N-nothing,” she lied, shooting him a glance.
    “Your face is blotchy.”
    She sighed and leaned her head back against the cushions again. The admiration obviously wasn’t mutual. “It’s amazing I’m not shunned by society as I walk down the street with my stubby, short legs and blotchy skin. Oh and I guess now I can add a limp like Igor.”
    His shout of laughter interrupted her and she waited to continue. He looked over at her. “What?”
    She had to quell the auto-drool that threatened as she took in the expanse of taught, bare skin. Weren’t their clothes dry yet? “I’m just not used to you laughing. I think I’m in shock.”
    “I do smile, on occasion. It took me a while, after Sarah,” he said gruffly.
    Melanie looked down at the bottle in her lap. “I can’t even imagine. She was a wonderful woman,” she whispered, her fingers tightening around the bottle.
    “She was my best friend,” he