Page 89 of Cash

My pulse leaps. Good. That means I get to do my cowgirl thing again today. Which means I get to see Cash. And all the other cowboys. Because I like cowboys in general, notonecowboy specifically.

At least that’s what I tell myself as I brush my teeth and braid my hair.

But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t downright giddy as I open my bedroom door at five till four. Will Cash want another omelet?

Will he do that obscenely sexy thing where he opens another bottle of hot sauce for me?

I draw up short when I see several shopping bags on the floor in the hall outside my door. Leaning down to open one, I see that they’re filled with bags of Epsom salt.

Eucalyptus scented.

There’s no note, but I don’t need one.

Barely able to breathe, I grab a bag and scurry to the kitchen. Cash is at the coffeepot, pouring coffee into a pair of mugs. He tops each one off with milk and sugar and then lifts them, turning.

He grins when he sees me.

“What’s this?” I hold up the Epsom salts.

Cash casually sips his coffee, like he didn’t just perform a gesture that’s not exactly grand, but not exactly small, either. Because I’m not sure I’ve ever received such a thoughtful gift. Sure, I’ve gotten elaborate gifts. Ridiculous ones. But gifts that are thoughtful and sweet, given out of kindness, not obligation?

Never.

“You need to be in that tub every night, Mollie.”

“Your tub?”

His grin twitches. “If you want.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Thank you is a good start.”

I only set down the bag when Cash holds out a mug of coffee to me. “Thank you. I really mean that.” Crossing the kitchen, I take the mug. “And thank you for this too.”

Am I imagining it, or did Cash intentionally brush his fingers against mine? Electricity zips up my arm, awareness blooming inside my skin.

“The salt makes a difference, doesn’t it?” Cash’s eyes are locked on mine. “You seem to be moving around pretty well this morning.”

He noticed how I’m moving?

Why does that make me blush? And smile? And want to tackle him?

Where the hell is Patsy?Oh, right. She has weekends off.

“You were right,” I manage. “It helps.”

“Bet it kills you to say those words.”

I hold up my fingers, pinching them together. “Only a little.”

He watches me sip my coffee. I watch him sip his. Fire streaks through me at the satisfied rumble that sounds inside his chest.

“Do you work every weekend?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I actually have them off, but I work anyway.”

“Of course you do.”