I clomped across the room in my combat boots before realizing my feet had been in them for over twelve hours. I kicked them off and wiggled my toes. My black “body bag” was placed on the foot of the bed and almost meticulously centered. The reminder that Jesse had been inside my room only a few minutes ago, lowering my bag onto that bed . . . Well, it did things to my stomach and my body that no red-blooded cowboy should do to my stomach and body.

Jesse had just been in here . . .

That explained why the room still smelled like him. Kind of soapy, kind of earthy, and kind of like some other scent I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Something familiar, but only vaguely so.

Musky? Leathery? I couldn’t quite pinpoint it.

What the . . .

What the hell was I doing? Contemplating the undertone scent of some tight-pant wearing guy I’d just met? I had to remind myself I was not a boy-crazy, stars-aligned sucker a few times before heading over to my bag. If a fury of unpacking couldn’t do the job of removing Jesse from my mind, I just might have to soak in a tub for a while because there was no way, in my wound up state, I could fall asleep.

After unzipping my bag, I headed over to the simple wood dresser across from the bed. I slid open the first couple of drawers to confirm they were empty before heading back to my bag, scooping up an armload of clothes, and dropping it into the top drawer. I repeated the process until my bag was empty and the top four drawers were filled to capacity. I had more drawers than clothes, so I never got around to opening the bottom drawer. I slowed down and took my time when I got to my art supplies. I stacked my box of charcoal on top of my sketchbook and centered them on top of the dresser.

Okay. Unpacking complete. What next?

I stared at the double-sized bed for a moment. It matched the dresser and nightstand: dark cherry wood, a simple, no-nonsense design. However, what covered the bed was anything but simple. One of the brightest, most colorful quilts in existence blanketed the mattress. It had lots of blue and green squares, some patterned, some textured, and the rest of the squares ranged in color from chocolate brown to scarlet to pale yellow. From the looks of it, the quilt had been washed hundreds of times, but other than the fading and obvious wear to the fabric, it was pristine. There were no rips or dangling threads.

Great. I was admiring an ancient quilt.

Yet another What the . . . moment.

Someone needed a bath, and fast. Snatching my shower bag from the dresser, I had to rummage around the drawers before I could wrestle out a pair of my pajamas. After opening the bedroom door, I scanned the hallway before hurrying toward the bathroom. It was across from Clementine’s bedroom and it was empty, which was probably an unlikely thing in a family of three girls. I heard some commotion downstairs and guessed everyone was probably about to sit down for dinner. A family like the Walkers probably still did that sort of thing: sit-down dinners complete with conversation and home-cooked food.

Once I’d tucked myself away inside the bathroom, I cranked on the tub faucet and tested the water. In an old house like theirs, I expected the water to take a half hour to get hot, but it was warm almost right away. After taking my time undressing, I dumped in a capful of lilac bubble bath I found hanging out in a basket beside the claw-foot tub, made sure there was an available and clean towel nearby, and eased my way into the steaming bath.

Before long, all thoughts of a J named cowboy had drifted away. Along with the rest of any and all thoughts of everything else.

I don’t know how long I was passed out in the tub, but it was long enough for the water to get chilly. I had to blink a few times to clear my head before I remembered where I was and whose bathtub I was in.

Just when I remembered I was at the Walkers, turning into a popsicle in their claw-foot tub, I heard footsteps down the hall. They got closer and had the distinct tap-clack sound of a pair of boots. At Willow Springs Ranch, it could only mean cowboy boots.

I sucked in a breath, afraid to make a sound. I didn’t need to see the owner of those boots tap-clacking closer to know who wore them. I could . . . feel him.

Damn. For once, I was on the same wavelength as the rest of my polo-shirt and jean-skirt wearing peers: I was certifiable.

I didn’t have a chance to wonder at how messed up the wiring in my head was because those tap-clacking boots came to a sudden stop. Right outside the goddamned bathroom door I was naked in a tub behind.

What should I do? Yell at him to get lost? Leap out and cinch that towel around me as fast as I could? Make an appointment with the nearest clinical psychologist to have my head examined?

All were tempting solutions, especially the last gem, but what did I do instead?

I scooted down in the tub, clamped my lips shut, and hoped he’d keep moving.

After a good ten seconds of cowering inside a cold bath not even daring to take a breath, the boot steps restarted down the rest of the hall, down the stairs, and who knows from there.

“Real smooth, Rowen,” I said under my breath, thumping the drain release lever with my big toe. “What were you worried he was going to do? Break down the door, tear off his clothes, and make hot, passionate cowboy love to you?”

After verbally flogging myself a little longer, I shrugged into my old sweats and warned my subconscious, who obviously had a closet fantasy for rough and rugged types, that if she didn’t behave, I’d medicate her into obedience.

I stalled for a few more minutes by tidying up the bathroom a bit before twisting the doorknob open. I scanned the hall, up and down, twice before literally tip-toeing down the hall. Despite it being almost dark outside, a bunch of noise was still coming from the first floor.

I didn’t notice the plate sealed up with plastic wrap until I was a few steps from my bedroom door. It looked to be some slab of beef, accompanied by au gratin potatoes, green beans, and a dinner roll, complete with a knife and fork on top of the plastic wrap. Resting on top of the silverware was a folded piece of paper.

I gazed down the hall again, half expecting to see Jesse leaning against the wall and watching me with that smile of his. I exhaled when I found it still empty. I grabbed the plate and note and ducked inside my room, trying to close the door as noiselessly as Rose. Apparently she had the gift, or years of experience, because that darn door creaked and groaned so loudly I worried the entire house would hear it.

After setting the plate on top of the dresser with my shower bag, I leaned into the door for support and opened the note. My heart raced before I read one word.

My turn to ask a question.

I swallowed. I hadn’t realized our game of question and answer would go on past the truck ride. If Jesse assumed it would carry on the rest of the summer, I was in trouble. Opening up wasn’t exactly a strong point for me.

Shaking it off, or at least trying, I finished reading the note:

Are you seeing anyone? And before you get all literal on me, you know what I mean. Do you have a boyfriend?

So much for keeping the questions in the non-personal realm. Only because I knew if I didn’t write my answer down right away, I never would, I went over to my purse to dig a pen out. I didn’t stop to wonder why Jesse wanted to know if I was seeing someone. I didn’t pause to wonder what he’d think when he read my answer. I had all night to overanalyze the hell out of his question. Right then, I just needed to get my response down on paper.

Uncapping the pen with my teeth, I scribbled down my reply.

No. I’m not seeing anyone at this very moment, but that’s not to say that might change the next moment.