Chapter Twenty-Two
Of course Waylon is here.
Because why wouldn’t he be? He’s been everywhere lately. I honestly thought I’d get a nice little break from his face when he canceled Ruby’s session today.
Apparently, that was all the universe was willing to give me.
I was even letting myself enjoy this evening, getting to know Dixon. Though it’s kinda hard to do in this environment.
Especially with my loud, nosy family around.
I slide back into my seat at the table and force my attention onto Dixon, who’s mid-sentence, talking about a mare he trimmed earlier this week.
He’s earnest, thoughtful, genuinely interested in what I do and what I think.
He leans in just enough to hear me over the music, his hand resting lightly on the edge of the table—not touching me, but close enough to feel attentive and intentional.
I nod. Smile. Try to focus.
But I can sense it.
Waylon’s gaze.
It’s like heat at the back of my neck, pressure that refuses to let up. I shift in my chair, angle my body away from where I know he’s sitting, talking to Caison and Bryce, but it doesn’t help. My skin is aware of him in a way I don’t like.
“… and then I told him if he keeps letting that hoof go that long—”
“I’m sorry,” I interrupt. “What?”
Dixon blinks, then chuckles softly. “I told him she could end up lame if he doesn’t have her hooves taken care of on a regular basis. It’s like brushing our teeth; if you neglect them, you’ll lose them.”
“Right. Yes. Absolutely.” I wince. “Sorry, music’s loud.”
He smiles, unbothered. “Want another drink? You’re out.”
I glance at my empty glass. When did that happen? “Actually, I’ll grab it. You stay.”
He starts to rise anyway, but I press a hand to his shoulder.
“I’ve got it.”
His eyes flicker with something. And I know he’s fighting his manners.
“Okay,” he says, settling back into his seat.
I push my chair out and head for the bar, weaving through bodies, breathing easier the farther I get from the table. Theo catches my eye almost immediately, and I lift a hand in greeting. He nods, already reaching for a glass.
I wait patiently, tapping my fingers lightly against the bar top.
That’s when I feel it.
Heat presses against my back—solid, unmoving. I step forward a half step, but the warmth follows, crowding my space.
I don’t even think.
I bring my elbow back, sharp and quick, aiming for ribs.
Instead, my joint meets solid muscle.
I suck in a breath and spin around, ready to rip someone a new one.
And there he is.
Waylon.
Up close, he’s even more of a distraction than he was from across the room.
White button-up shirt stretched across a broad chest, the top button undone, revealing his collarbone.
A denim jacket thrown on casually. Dark Wranglers hugging his hips in a way that should be illegal.
Scuffed boots. A dark brown leather belt with a shiny silver buckle that catches the bar light. And the hat …
God help me.
He’s close. So close. Closer than I’ve been to him in a long time. And maybe it’s the tequila, but I let myself really look at him. He’s taller than I remember. Bigger. Filled out in a way that makes me realize he was just a boy when he left town and now he’s all man.
“Easy there, Stormy,” he drawls, slow grin spreading across his stupidly handsome face.
There it is—the hint of his dimples under a few days’ worth of stubble, shadowing his square jawline. His sharp blue eyes sparkle with amusement, like he’s enjoying this a little too much.
I glare at him. Hard.
“Are you stalking me?” I finally ask.
He chuckles. “Nope. Just thirsty.”
“Funny how you keep landing directly in my personal space.”
“It’s a crowded bar,” he says mildly.
I glance at the bodies pressing in around us.
His grin widens, unrepentant.
“Whatever.” I turn back to the bar, jaw tight. “I wasn’t just talking about tonight. Now step back.”
He does, but only just enough to give me breathing room, still close enough that I can feel the heat of him, smell leather and the spiciness of his soap.
“I see you’re here with someone,” he says into my hair.
I stiffen.
“How’s ol’ Dick?” he asks.
I turn back slowly. “You know his name is Dixon.”
One brow lifts. “Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.” He considers that. “Doesn’t suit him.”
I roll my eyes. “He’s good. Great actually. Sweet. Handsome. Dependable.” I emphasize every word, daring him to say something.
Instead, his mouth curves into a satisfied grin.
“What?” I snap.
He shakes his head. “You don’t like him at all.”
“And how would you know anything about what I like or don’t like?”
He studies me for a second longer than necessary, then leans in—close enough that his mouth brushes the shell of my ear.
His voice drops low, as if just for me, when he says, “Because sweet and dependable can’t fucking handle a woman like you, Stormy.”
My breath stutters.
“You need a man who can stand toe to toe with you,” he continues, voice rough, certain. “One who fights as hard as he loves. One who can stoke that fire inside of you and then be man enough to quench it.”
My heart is pounding so hard that I’m afraid he can hear it.
“And Dixon Fisher,” he finishes quietly, “ain’t that man.”
The words knock the wind clean out of me.
For a split second, I can’t even form a response. My brain is too busy replaying the way he said my name. The way his presence fills every inch of space around me.
Theo chooses that exact moment to appear, saving me from myself.
“Paloma for you,” he says, setting the glass in front of me. “And a beer.”
Waylon takes both without asking.
“Put ’em on my tab,” he tells Theo easily, already turning away.
I watch him walk back toward the table like he didn’t just upend my entire night.
Like he didn’t just look at me like that.
I stand there in stunned silence for exactly one beat.
Then I stomp after his arrogant ass.