She went home and collapsed in bed. It had been a long day.
It was also one of the best days she’d had in a long, long time. This was what it’d be like if she was a mom, she realized. Long, exhausting hours, but filled with the happiest little girl, who made even mundane moments seem amazing. Her heart was filled with longing.
Someday, she’d have a family of her own, she hoped.
Becca closed her eyes and tucked the blankets close to her, but after a moment, she pulled her phone off the nightstand and flipped through the numbers there. He hadn’t deleted Greg’s information after all. He’d only pretended to.
For some reason, that made her smile. Seemed like the big cowboy was all bark and no bite. She deleted the number herself, because she was done with Greg. She didn’t want anything to do with him. Not anymore. She’d already given him far too much time.
After she deleted that, she pulled up Hank’s photo and gazed at it. The sight of it made her smile. His expression was stern in the picture, as if he wasn’t entirely sure if he should look friendly or not. It was all mountain-man beard and black hair and dark circles under his eyes . . . but she studied his features. A good, strong nose. A nice mouth with a full lower lip. Soulful eyes. Not a receding hairline in sight.
She giggled to herself and put the phone back down on the dresser. She had his phone number and had no idea what to do with it, but . . . it was strangely nice to have.
Man, she was turning into an easy-to-please woman if a scowly picture and a phone number exchange made her feel special. But it did. Just like that brief touch on the hand earlier in the kitchen.
She suspected a lot of people didn’t get to know Hank Watson . . . and it felt special to be one of the few.
CHAPTER SIX
Hank didn’t go to sleep right away that night. Even though he was tired, he lay in bed and stared up at the ceiling, his phone on his belly. He wasn’t going to look at Becca’s picture. He wasn’t. It was just a stupid picture. She was just the town busybody who’d decided to push her way into their lives to help out.
So she’d asked him out months ago. So what? It was clear she wasn’t dwelling on it. And he didn’t want—or need—a woman.
He didn’t know why he was thinking about her.
Or the soft, shy smile on her face when he’d taken her picture. Or the way she’d flirted with him that morning.
He certainly wasn’t thinking about the drowsy look in her eyes as she brought Libby home, along with a ton of groceries for him and the guys.
Hank had noticed that his brothers were now doing their best to be around when Becca was. They lingered in the kitchen when she was there, and drifted in and out of the house looking for her throughout the day.
It irritated him. He wasn’t sure if they were interested in her physically, or just doing it to get under his skin, but it was working. Hank wasn’t entirely sure Becca had noticed them, though. She’d seemed focused on Libby . . . and on him.
Unable to resist any longer, he reached for his phone and typed in the password. His cock got hard as he thought about how he’d boldly touched her hand, and how soft her fingers had been under his grip. He quickly opened the phonebook app and pulled up her picture.
There she was, utterly gorgeous, the long, dark hair falling over her shoulder. Even in the crappy phone photo, he’d somehow managed to capture the sparkle in her eye, the softness and gentleness of her that made him so damn crazy.
He took his cock in his hand and stroked it, staring at the photo. At Becca.
Normally, getting himself off involved no finesse, no imagination. It was the sexual equivalent of scratching an itch. Sometimes he got antsy and needed to jerk one out in the shower. It happened. He’d think of a pretty face of some actress or another and quickly “scratch the itch” in private, no relationship needed. A magazine used to do the trick until Libby had found it, and then he’d thrown it away.
He’d never jerked off to a woman he actually knew, though just barely.
But hell, just staring at Becca’s picture as he stroked his length made him harder than he’d ever been. He gritted his teeth, working his cock as he gazed at her picture, imagining the feel of her soft hair sliding over his chest, what her tits would look like when she was naked . . . and the little gasps she’d make when he claimed her.
Hank had never come so hard or so fast in his life.
Afterward, he cleaned up and lay back down in bed, staring up at the ceiling. His body was replete, but his head was still churning.
He’d said no to a date. Turned her down flat.
But what if . . . what if he’d said yes? Would she be in his bed even now?
Damn. He was an idiot.
CHAPTER SEVEN
One Month Later
Becca pulled up to the Swinging C and slid her small car between the two big gray trucks parked in their usual spots. She’d come to think of this as “her” parking space, which was silly, but it made her smile to pull in every time. The predawn morning was rather beautiful, the air no longer bitingly crisp, and she’d put on a sundress and worn strappy sandals. She picked up her daily box of doughnuts—those cowboys sure did love their doughnuts—and headed inside with a paper cup of foamy latte in her hand. The bakery made all kinds of crazy coffee drinks, and since she was up this early, that deserved something involving whip and mocha, she felt.
The door to the ranch house opened before she even stepped onto the porch, and Hank was there, watching her.
He didn’t greet her—never did. But he always had the door open for her, as if he was waiting on her to arrive. And that made her stomach flutter in all kinds of ways.
She gave him a flirty smile as she sidestepped into the door, mindful of the doughnuts and coffee. Her purse was slung over her shoulder, and her tiny heels clacked on the wooden floors of the house as she went into the kitchen. Once there, she set the box of doughnuts down and immediately started to make coffee. The back of her neck prickled, and she knew Hank was standing in the doorway, watching her.
He always watched her. Every morning.
Sometimes he’d talk to her, but most times he’d just watch her. She couldn’t decide if he was irked that she’d shown up again or if he didn’t trust her. In her secret heart of hearts, she hoped he was noticing her like a guy should notice a woman. So maybe she swung her hips a little more as she walked, or bent over really low when she pulled something out of the fridge. Maybe her sundress showed a fair amount of cleavage.
It didn’t matter. Hank never made a move, and after he’d turned her down flat? Becca wasn’t about to ask again. But he could look at her and see what he’d turned down, and so she did her best to be as sexy and put together as she could even if it meant waking up far, far too early in the morning.
That was all right. She had nothing to do at night except go to bed early, anyhow.
In the last month, she’d become familiar with the ranch house, and she tugged the big bowl of eggs toward her on the counter. “You want breakfast? Or are you heading out to the barn?”
Hank grunted.
She . . . wasn’t entirely sure what that response was. “Three eggs or four?”
“Four.”
It was a start, at least. Becca started cracking eggs and scooped a pat of butter into the skillet. Her father had been a cowboy, and she knew they could eat, and eat, and eat. The doughnuts she brought every day were gone by the evening, and no matter how much she baked, they cleaned the fridge out within a matter of hours. So she’d make a big mess of eggs and bacon for everyone. She got to work, beating eggs and humming and . . . Hank was still behind her.
Okay, it was going to be one of those mornings. She glanced over her shoulder at him. “When does Libby’s class start? Do I need to take her in for paperwork in advance?”
“Not yet.”
She nodded absently.
<
br /> “Uncle Ennis—Doc—gets his boot off today.”
She glanced over at him. “Oh, good. I bet he’s more than ready—”
“And the puppies aren’t needing bottles anymore.”
She paused, then turned to look at him.
Hank had his arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. “Calving’s slowed down, too.”
Oh.
He was getting rid of her. “I see. So you’re telling me you don’t need any help around here anymore.”
He grunted.
“That’s a good thing,” she said brightly, and turned back around to the eggs. A good thing, sure. Weird how that hurt her feelings, though. After all, she’d run herself ragged over the last month trying to help them out. She’d cooked more meals and baked more muffins than a damned baker. She’d done laundry, swept floors, bottle-fed puppies, and watched Libby all day long. She’d been ridiculously busy.
She’d also been having way too much fun.
It was nice to be needed, nice to be around a busy group, nice to have people that you looked after. Becca was a people pleaser at heart—one reason why she’d gotten into beauty—and with Greg out of her life, she had no one to take care of other than her clients at the salon. Her parents had moved away and so had most of her friends from high school. It had been so nice to be needed.
And now this guy was telling her to buzz off.
She swallowed hard and stared down at the bowl in front of her. “Are you telling me to get out of here?”
There was a long pause. “You’re already cooking breakfast.”
Well, wasn’t that so nice of him. Since she was already hard at work slaving over the stove, he’d let her continue. She fought back a burst of bitterness, because Hank wasn’t to blame. He’d never asked her to come and help out. It had always been Doc who’d been excited to see her. Doc had given her the money to bring doughnuts to the guys every day. Doc gave her grocery lists and hugged her for being such a “dear” and helping out. Caleb and Jack—Hank’s brothers—were polite, but she never really talked to them much because they were always busy or tired. Or both.
Hank was the one she’d thought she’d warmed up, honestly. He was never super chatty . . . or even just chatty. But he lingered in the kitchen more than the others, never let her carry a full bag of groceries, and always walked her out to her car. She’d thought they’d become friends. She’d thought maybe . . .
Well, it didn’t matter what she thought. He’d just told her what he was truly thinking. That she was a nuisance and they were glad to be rid of her. Fine. No more Hank . . . and no more Libby.
That last part somehow hurt the most, though. Becca had always loved children and wanted plenty of her own. In the last month, she’d spent almost every day with Libby, taking care of her because the guys were so busy and Doc was injured and had a business of his own to run. Chasing after a four-year-old was exhausting, but Libby was just the cutest, most charming little thing she’d ever seen. She loved that little girl with all her heart and loved having her around at the salon every day. She loved fixing her hair and helping her dress and loved reading books to her. It was like having a daughter of her own, even for a little while, and sometimes she (sheepishly) let herself imagine what would have happened if Hank had said yes to her date offer. Maybe someday they would’ve become a little family.
Ha.
“I see.” She set her hands on the counter. “Do you want me to leave right now?”
Hank clenched his jaw. “Need to drive Doc in to the doctor later today.”
“Of course.” Of course they still needed her today. He was just letting her know that after another full day of unpaid babysitting and housekeeping, they’d have no further use for her. That was unfair, though. She wasn’t really babysitting Libby—Becca would have done it anyhow, just because she adored the little girl. “I’ll—”
“Miss Becca!” Libby’s happy little voice lit up the kitchen. “G’morning!”
“Hey, pumpkin,” Becca sang out cheerily. “You’re up early.”
“I wanted to have you fix my hair before we go to work today.” She yawned, rubbing a small fist against her eye.
Becca chuckled and wanted to squeeze the little girl tightly. “I’m sure we can do something real pretty with your hair before we get our first customers. You know what you want done?” When Libby nodded, Becca set aside the half-beaten eggs and put her hand out. “Why don’t we go feed the puppies and see if Grampa Ennis is up, hmm?”
Libby took her hand and started to lead her out of the kitchen.
Becca shot Hank a glare over her shoulder and let the child lead her out. They could wait on breakfast, the ingrates. Well, she wasn’t angry at all of them. Not Doc, or Jack or Caleb. But Hank? She didn’t care if Hank starved this morning.
* * *
* * *
It occurred to Hank that he hadn’t handled the situation properly.
He stewed on it all day as he worked, throwing bales of hay down for the cattle and repairing fences in the mud. Their conversation was a track that ran in his mind over and over again. She’d been terribly insulted when he’d pointed out that she wasn’t needed anymore. He’d meant to lead into asking her out on a date, and he’d never quite gotten there.
Now she was mad. Real mad. And mostly mad at him.
And he didn’t like that much. He told himself that he shouldn’t care. That he certainly didn’t need to ask anyone out. If he did, he imagined he could find someone other than her, right? It didn’t have to be Becca Loftis.
Never mind that he stared at her picture far more often than was seemly.
Never mind that he jerked his dick to it several times a day, and the number was increasing over time. Never mind that hearing her voice or her laughter made his entire body react.
Never mind that she loved his daughter and flirted with him.
But those things did matter . . . which was why Hank stood outside the salon like some fucking creep, staring into the windows at the woman inside as she chattered and laughed with the woman in the chair in front of her. She expertly wielded tiny scissors, her hands moving rapidly as she cut wet hair and listened to the conversation, all the while keeping an eye on Libby, who was coloring in the corner.
Libby ran up, interrupting Becca as she cut the woman’s hair, displaying a picture she’d drawn, and instead of reprimanding his daughter, Becca acted like she’d just been given a gift. The woman in the chair oohed and aahed over Libby’s picture, and then Becca took Libby by the hand, ignoring the smiling customer for a moment, and went over to a wall.
It was a wall entirely covered with Libby’s terrible four-year-old art. Some people thought their kids were gifted because they could scribble shit, but Hank was a practical sort. It was cute, but it was still crap. Crap was fine, because she was a kid, though. But Becca acted like each one was a treasure, and that did funny things to him.
Adria had never given two shits about her own kid, so he’d always figured his dick was bad at picking out the right women. Yet here he was, lusting over a soft, too-pretty woman who also seemed to adore his daughter. So maybe his dick wasn’t that bad at this sort of thing after all.
He needed to ask her out.
She’d never offered again. Hank hoped that didn’t mean she had changed her mind about things, or that she no longer found him attractive. Maybe she just wasn’t the type to pry . . . he hoped.
So he stared into the window at Becca as she worked, trying to think of the right thing to say.
Apologize for this morning? Nah. It’d come across as weak. Besides, he didn’t believe in starting a relationship with an apology. No, he’d have to think of something else.
Flattery? That’d be . . . awkward. He wasn’t good with pretty words. Certainly wasn’t good with poetry or any shit like that. ’Sides, she knew she was pretty.
He was sure she didn’t need to hear that from him. Should he ask if she was dating anyone? Thing was, he knew she wasn’t. Doc was always teasing her about how she needed to “get back out there,” whatever the hell that meant.
So . . . what, then? How did he lead the conversation toward asking her on a date?
“Daddy?” Libby ran up to the door and knocked, beaming at him. “Why are you hiding outside, Daddy?”
He could feel his face turn bright red as both Becca and the woman in the chair turned to look at him. He wasn’t hiding, damn it.
Libby knocked on the door again, the bell clanging on the end of the pink ribbon like a damned gong in his ears. Hank hastily pulled the door open and scooped Libby up. “Wasn’t hiding.”
“Yes, you were!”
He tried his best not to scowl, especially when Becca bit her lip and turned back to her customer. “I’ll be with you in just a moment, Mr. Watson,” she called out.
And that was real irritating. Mr. Watson? Really? Was she trying to point out that she wasn’t his friend? After a moment, he decided that was fine.
He wasn’t interested in being Becca’s friend anyhow. He wanted more from her than a buddy. Way more. Now that he’d finally decided she wasn’t pranking him? He was all in.
Now he just had to convince her.
Becca continued to work on the woman’s hair, casting him a curious look when he sat Libby back down at the tiny plastic desk in the corner. It was pink and unfamiliar and just the right size for his small daughter, which meant Becca had bought it just for Libby. She had a good heart, he decided. And she could cook. And she was generous.
Maybe it was time to start looking for a new mama for his daughter.
Not that he was thinking purely of Libby when he stared at Becca as she worked. If he was being honest with himself, he was more interested in Hank than in Libby. Hank and his late-night phone sessions where Becca’s picture got all kinds of usage it wasn’t intended for.
The Cowboy Meets His Match Page 6