Tempting the Cowboy Read Free Page A

tiny white lights twined around the deck beams. Railroad lanterns glowed softly on the left side of each step going up. A stone chimney and tall, peaked windows framed by chinked logs were the sum of what she could see in the evening light. But even that little bit took her breath away. Maybe this was just what she needed after all.
    Rylan parked and slid out of the truck, taking a step back just to take it all in. Expectations or not, this was well beyond anything her brain could have cooked up. This trip now had two things going for it: one sexy as hell, albeit drunk, cowboy, and one beyond-amazing ranch house. Big-ass score.
    Cole slid out with a groan, rubbed his belly, wandered to the porch, and disappeared into the house before she could grab her bag from the backseat. Cowboys and chivalry and all that? A fat lie. Rylan lugged her duffel and walked tentatively to the stairs. She paused at the door, feeling that it was too brazen to simply walk in as Cole had. This was his home, and she was just the help—the new help, who had no idea who or where anyone was.
    She knocked. Once. Twice. No one came to the door. Antsy now, she knocked again, looking for a doorbell or something that someone might actually hear in the massive house, when the door flew open.
    “For Chrissake, just come in!” Cole’s shirtless body took up the entire entrance. His muscled torso gleamed in the cast of light and shadow from inside. Dark hair curled over his chest, narrowing down the length of cut-and-sculpted abs. Rylan swallowed hard and looked away. The flutters in her belly were sudden and unwelcome. Half blocking the door, Cole made no further attempt to get out of the way, forcing her to squeeze between his naked chest and the doorframe to get in. She was tempted to quietly jab him in the gut with her elbow as she passed, on principle.
    She barely had time to take in her surroundings as he stomped off, making her hurry to keep up. He was remarkably steady considering how unsteady he’d been at the bar. That must have been one hell of a power nap on the ride home.
    The entryway spilled into an open floor plan—they passed a dining room, living room, and went down a hallway. A whitewashed plank door sat at the end of the hall. Cole pushed in the door and gave a grand wave of his arm.
    “Your bedroom. It has a bathroom, and…whatever. I’ll tell Ma you’re here in the morning. No more banging. On anything .” He raised his eyebrows expectantly, like he wasn’t sure she understood. Rylan’s gaze wandered to the sprawling curls covering his chest. They spread nicely over his pectorals, down the narrow strip of tanned skin along his ribcage, and over his—
    Jesus. What the fuckity-fuck was wrong with her? She clenched her eyes. “Got it. No banging.”
    He turned, showing off a strongly muscled back. A tattoo in gray ink on his right shoulder blade caught her eye. She shifted a little to see. The tattoo spelled out “Birdie” in flowing block text, the tail of the e looping to connect to a small sparrow in flight. The ink was almost more masculine-beautiful than his perfect ass hugged by worn Wranglers. A little sigh puffed out between her lips as she wondered who Birdie was.
    “’Night,” he called before he pulled her door shut.
    Rylan let out a hard breath. She was deflated, completely done. Grateful for privacy, she slid the duffel bag off her shoulder and froze. The room was softly lit with an antique brass lantern on the bedside table. The walls were all planks—barn board, she guessed, like the door. But these were bathed in a turquoise patina, not unlike Cole’s eyes, with a honey-cream trim and white plank ceiling. The headboard was an old garden gate, resplendent with chipped white paint showing the black metal beneath and huge cast rosettes at the corners. She sat on the quilt-covered bed and ran her hands over the intricate hand-stitching that swirled over the boldly colored wedding-ring pattern. The room was