The Rancher's Redemption. Melinda Curtis
“You’re pathetic, Blackwell.” And harmless. Rachel took her booted foot from the left stirrup and held out her left hand. Ben clasped her wrist, put his sneaker in the stirrup and swung up behind her, settling on the saddle blanket.
Utah didn’t even look back to see what was happening.
Ben placed his hands on Rachel’s hips, which was so unexpected she nearly jumped out of the saddle. Instead, she heeled Utah forward and lurched against Ben’s solid chest.
She was wrong. Ben wasn’t harmless. He was handsome and charismatic and dangerous to single ladies.
Rachel shivered.
Ben’s chin brushed her shoulder. “Are you ticklish?”
“No.”
“Cold?”
“No.” His touch made her lonely, made her regret wearing her mother’s overalls and made her want to touch up her makeup. “Let it go, will you?”
He was silent. For most of a minute. “Have you been inside Big E’s house lately?”
She chuckled, only because she imagined the look on Ben’s face when he’d walked into his old home. “It’s a bit over the top, isn’t it?” Not wanting to seem disloyal, she quickly added, “I mean, it’s quite an upgrade from what it was. Zoe was much more traditional in her design choices when she decorated the guest lodge.”
“I haven’t seen the place.” And by the tone of his voice, he didn’t plan to.
Another round of silence ensued. She hoped it lasted to the last Blackwell gate.
“Are they happy together?” His question was spoken so low, she almost thought she’d imagined it. Until he added, “Rach?”
“You mean Big E and Zoe? Sure, they’re happy. They’ve been married five years.” The words didn’t quite ring true. Zoe was too proud to say much, but Rachel had sensed a change in her friend the past year or so. Remodeling the house hadn’t been enough. Building the guest ranch hadn’t been enough.
Ben sighed. His palms settled more comfortably over Rachel’s waist. “What did you have for dinner?”
Did he think she was fat? He had his hands on her post-baby love-handles. She never should have eaten dinner.
“You really want to know?”
His stomach growled an answer. “Excuse me, but yes. It’s like food porn. Give.”
She laughed. “It’s not exactly haute cuisine.” Nothing like he probably ate in New York. “Chicken casserole. Steamed veggies. Homemade biscuits.” Not exactly wise, given she wanted to lose that last ten pounds of baby weight. But there was nothing in the world like hot buttered biscuits to make your cares seem less important.
Ben pounced. “Was it your mother’s chicken casserole? The one with the fried onions and cheese?”
“Yes.”
“She used to make that for the sports banquets.” Ben’s stomach rumbled once more. “Her chicken casserole was better than Ms. Gardner’s tamales. Better than Ms. Castillo’s chicken and dumplings. Better than Ms. Maeda’s stir-fry.”
Rachel’s mother would be thrilled with the praise and... “Hold up.” This wasn’t about Rachel’s baby weight. “Are you trying to mooch food off me?”
“Well, if you’re offering...” It seemed as if he leaned in closer. His breath was warm over her ear. “I will gladly accept your hospitality.”
“Ben Blackwell.” He was trying to get under her skin before tomorrow, just as she’d been trying to do with him. And he was doing a better job of it than she was! “You are not coming to my house. My family loathes you for stealing our water. My grandmother is convinced you’re the reason my dad had a heart attack.”
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