The Rancher's Bride

“Who the hell—?”

The man turned back to face her, reluctantly it seemed.

Ryan Clayborne.

“I knocked,” he said, managing to sound both nervous and defensive at the same time.

“You let yourself in?” It was taking a moment for her brain to wake up. When she’d first woken up, she’d had to think for a moment where she was because prior to opening her eyes, she’d been having a dream about a man with dark hair—

Nope. Not going there.

“My mom. She was worried last night. Wanted me to check on you this morning.”

“So you just let yourself in?” she repeated.

“I heard a noise. And you’ve been asleep for hours.”

But then something he’d just said sank in. Morning? It wasn’t morning.

Was it?

She glanced out the window to his left, the parted drapes revealing a seashell-colored sky, one that could signal dusk…or dawn.

And then she heard it. A rooster. It crowed in the distance.

Morning.

She ran a hand through her hair. Her eyes felt gritty. And if she were honest, she felt a little woozy.

“I need to get dressed for work.”

“Does your throat hurt?”

Jorie froze. It took a moment for her sleep-numbed mind to absorb his words.

“I’ve never heard a woman snore like you do.” His brows drew together a bit. “Is it a genetic thing?”

“Go away,” she said, rubbing her eyes. She’d slept all night? And half an afternoon of the day before. Had she been that exhausted?

Apparently so.

“Maybe you should eat something. I left my mom’s quiche on the kitchen table.”

“No. I’m fine.” She was actually famished, she suddenly realized. “Thanks for waking me up. I’ll be dressed in just a minute, but don’t wait for me. I can walk to work.”

“Work?” Ryan frowned again. “You don’t have to work today. You’re not slated to start until Monday. It’s Friday. Eat your breakfast.”

He turned way.

“I’ll be at the office in fifteen minutes.”

He glanced back at her, his gaze sliding downward, only to pause for a moment. Color bloomed on her cheeks because she could feel cool air on her legs, knew the blanket covered little more than her upper thighs and torso.

“Eat your breakfast,” he repeated, that gaze of his doing something, a something that caused her whole body to react in a way that it really shouldn’t.

“My mom won’t be happy if you don’t.”

Something flickered, something heated and dark that turned his aqua-colored eyes a deep green.

He turned away again.

She felt the cover slip, and Jorie realized she’d been standing there, gawking… .

No, going gooey.

The door closed, bringing her back to earth. She blinked.

Not gooey, just famished. She hadn’t had any dinner the night before. No lunch, either. Maybe even not any breakfast.

Quiche.

She hitched the cover up, told herself she’d been imagining whatever she saw, and strode to the 1960s-style kitchen.

There it was, the quiche, sitting on the table in all its glory, a golden stream of light illuminating its flaky depths as if it was a gift from God.

Not really.

It just seemed that way because she was so damn hungry, and she wanted to scarf that quiche down more than anything she’d ever wanted in her life—her stomach actually growled at the thought.

“To hell with it.”

She would go to the office. She would eat the quiche later, at her desk.

She turned, thankful that she’d had the foresight to lay out her clothes the night before, because it suddenly became important to catch him before he left.

She washed up and dressed in record time, ran to the floor-length mirror in the corner of the room, checked her appearance to ensure the black slacks and off-white button-down blouse weren’t crooked, then ran to the door. She grabbed a brush along the way, all the while listening for the sound of his truck starting up. Nothing. He must have gone to his own house. She almost hurried past the quiche, but she ran back and grabbed the pastry. Maybe she’d eat on the way. No sense in passing out at his feet. She’d use her hands if she had to—

An engine roared to life.

“Wait!” she shouted.

She jammed a finger on the doorknob, cursed, almost dropped the quiche and burst out the front door so fast she left one of her heels behind.

“Damn it.”

She darted back to get it, couldn’t manage to get her foot in, gave up, kicked the other one off, scooped them both up, and somehow managed to balance her heels, her quiche and her brush the whole time she ran toward his still idling truck.

“Don’t go,” she called, her loose hair streaming out behind her.