Free The Rancher Next Door by Betsy St. Amant Page A

bull.”
    Caley laughed as she straightened the teetering pile of washcloths. “That’d get you an A for sure.” Too bad Brady wouldn’t think so. Of all the words he’d use to describe Caley, she felt pretty certain that aplomb wouldn’t be on the list.
    Of course, she had a few choice words for him as well, so maybe that was fair.
    But nothing was fair about him shutting her out, ignoring what they’d experienced yesterday. Right or wrong, they’d lived through an adventure, and she thought they’d connected in those charged moments in her truck. Was he going to pretend it hadn’t happened? Well, she could do that, too. Denial was her specialty.
    She just needed to know what the rules were, so her stomach could quit flipping in circles every time she glimpsed him outside the big bay windows.
    “Is supper almost ready?” Ava set down her pencil and pressed her hand against her stomach. “My tummy’s growling.”
    The timer dinged from the other side of kitchen in response.
    “I’d say that’s a yes.” She shooed Ava off to go wash her hands in the bathroom, and hurried to peer inside the oven. The casserole she’d made for their supper looked done—maybe a little too done. She grabbed an oven mitt and pulled the large dish out to check its crispness just as Brady opened the back door.
    He stomped his boots on the braided rug in the entryway, but Caley refused to look at him or acknowledge he’d come inside. Two could play whatever immature game he’d been playing, and she’d play to win. He’d made it clear he wanted her serving them, not actually participating in their lives. Fine with her. She set the casserole on the stove top—it would do, well-done or not—and shut the oven door, pulling off the mitt, and grabbed a serving spoon.
    “Smells good.”
    His deep voice filled the kitchen and sent unwanted shivers down her spine. She ignored him and the way his boots thudded toward her as he crossed the room and began to wash his hands in the kitchen sink. She dipped the spoon into the chicken and rice, turned the burner off under the pot of green beans and started pulling plates from the cabinet by the sink, uncannily aware of every move he made.
    The water shut off. “Let me help.”
    Oh, now he was Mr. Nice Guy. His damp hands interrupted hers reaching for the forks in the silverware drawer, and she jerked back, refusing to answer. She grabbed the knives instead and stacked them on the plates, then tore several paper towels from the roll on the counter and carried the lot of it to the table.
    “Caley?”
    She whirled around, not expecting him to be directly behind her, and bumped into his hard chest, a solid mound of muscle. Their cozy, unexpected moment together in the truck flashed through her mind and she quickly started to back away, unwilling to tease herself with the memory another second. But he grabbed her arms and held her in place. “Will you be still? I need to tell you something.”
    Oh, she was sure he had plenty more lectures up his sleeve about danger and safety and obeying the rules to the detriment of others. But she wasn’t paid to listen to them.
    She tugged free, and he let her go, despite the pleading in his eyes. “I don’t think you do.” She began clearing Ava’s homework from the table, wishing she could just toss the casserole on the table and bail. But she wouldn’t leave without giving Ava a hug goodbye, and the girl still hadn’t returned from the bathroom. She met Brady’s eyes briefly as she crossed the kitchen to get the casserole. “You’ve said plenty already, trust me.” And in other ways, not nearly enough.
    She grabbed the hot pan just as she realized she hadn’t put the oven mitt back on. Heat scorched her fingers, and she dropped the dish by reflex. The glass shattered to the floor, sending a tidal wave of overcooked chicken and rice across the tiles—and around her bare feet.
    “Don’t move!” Brady jumped to her side, glass crunching