Chapter 15
Savannah
The highway stretches out in a long silver ribbon ahead of us, cutting through open country and summer haze. The bracelet Cash bought for me is something I keep admiring. I feel pretty … like I haven’t felt pretty in a long time. It’s as if he’s bringing something out of me that’s been buried.
Cash drives in silence, one arm slung casually over the wheel, his hat tipped low. Every so often he hums along to a song on the radio, and I catch myself watching the way his jaw moves, the way his forearm flexes at times.
Stop it, Savannah. You’ve got to keep this professional … friends at most.
Except the word “professional” feels like a joke after everything that’s happened -- the motel, the bracelet, the way he looked at me this morning like I was something worth protecting.
My phone buzzes, snapping me out of it. Marlene Tate. I already know this can’t be good.
Savannah, just saw the sponsor photos. Fantastic!
You and Dalton look amazing together. Everyone’s eating it up.
Tell him to keep that charm rolling because the team’s running with a new angle—“The Woman Behind the Cowboy.” Expect a follow-up shoot this afternoon.
Don’t screw this up. Oh, I love how you’re dressing the part. Great job!
I exhale hard. “Unbelievable.”
Cash glances over. “What now?”
“Marlene’s doubling down on this circus. She wants a new photo shoot, another one. Apparently, I’m now ‘the woman behind the cowboy.’”
He grins. “Has a nice ring to it.”
“I’m not amused.”
“Sure you are. Deep down.”
I shoot him a glare. “No. Deep down, I’m plotting her demise.”
He chuckles, steering us off the highway toward a sponsor ranch on the outskirts of town. It’s a sprawling property lined with white fences and banners sporting the brewery’s logo. Trucks, horses, and photographers already buzz around like bees.
Inside the sponsor tent, the event coordinator meets us with too much energy for the heat. “Ms. Brooks! Mr. Dalton! So glad you both could make it. We’ve got wardrobe prepped for both of you. Nothing fancy, just casual western chic. The spread will run in Rodeo Life Magazine in a couple of months!”
I paste on my professional smile. “Wonderful.”
Cash leans close, voice a low drawl. “Casual western chic, huh? That mean you’re wearing one of those skirts I picked out?”
“Keep dreaming.”
They usher us toward a small trailer parked behind the tent for a makeshift dressing area. Two wardrobes, one narrow space, zero breathing room.
Inside, it’s barely cooler than outside. Cash peels off his shirt to change into a sponsor-branded one, and I instantly turn away, pretending to scroll through my phone.
“Something wrong?” he asks, amusement curling his voice.
“No. Just … trying not to melt.”
“You sure it’s the heat?”
I spin around to glare, only to catch a full view of him pulling the new shirt over his shoulders. The motion is fluid, muscles shifting under sun-browned skin. He grins because he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“You’re impossible,” I mutter.
“You keep sayin’ that, but you’re still here.”
I grab my outfit from the rack. It’s a soft chambray shirt and a flowing skirt that hits mid-thigh. The skirt thing is new for me – something I don’t usually wear. But fighting it will only make things worse.
“Turn around,” I order.
He smirks but obeys, whistling under his breath while I change.
When I’m done, he turns back and stops cold. His grin fades into something quieter, heavier. “Damn, Brooks.”
“Don’t,” I warn.
He holds up his hands. “Just sayin’. You look … so right.”
“Thanks, Cash. Maybe after I powder my face and touch up my make-up, I’ll feel more positive about having photos taken again.”
“Can I watch?”
“Watch what?”
“Watch you do your face. I love to see a woman doing that. Used to watch my mama at times.”
“Well, I guess. If that keeps you quiet for a moment or two.”
As I hurry through an ordinary procedure, Cash has me feeling as if I’m under a microscope. I laugh a little under my breath as he studies my cosmetic application techniques.
“Should we put a little powder on you so you’re not glistening?” I ask, sarcastically.
“Brooks, I’ve come to the conclusion that I might let you do just about anything to me … as long as …”
Before he can finish, the photographer bursts in. “Perfect! Let’s get you two outside while the light’s still soft.”
They set us up in front of a weathered barn. The air smells like hay, horses, and well, horse manure.
“Okay,” the photographer calls out. “Let’s start simple. Cash, arm around her waist. Savannah, angle your face toward him. Gorgeous!”
I can feel his palm at my back, hot even through the fabric. The first click of the camera flashes like lightning.
“Now, look at each other,” the photographer says.
Bad idea, I’m thinking.
His eyes lock on mine. They’re amused, and a little too knowing.
“Closer,” the photographer calls. “Perfect tension right there. Beautiful.”
Cash’s thumb brushes a small circle against my side. It’s barely a touch, but my pulse goes wild.
“Let’s get one where you’re laughing,” the photographer says. “Something candid.”
Cash leans in and murmurs against my ear, “I can think of a few ways to make that happen.”
I swallow a laugh that turns into something dangerously close to a sigh.
Another flash.
“Excellent,” the photographer says. “Let’s do one last shot. Cash, tilt her chin up just a bit. Savannah, look at him like you mean it.”
I start to protest, but his fingers are already under my chin, lifting gently. Our eyes meet again, and suddenly I’m not acting anymore. Neither is he.
The shutter clicks. Once. Twice.
“Perfect,” the photographer says, backing away. “Got it. That’s a wrap.”
We stay there too long, his hand still at my jaw, my heart hammering against my ribs.
When the photographer disappears toward the tent, Cash moves first. Or maybe I do.
Either way, our mouths meet halfway.
It’s not planned. It’s not posed. It’s not pretend.
It’s soft at first -- very hesitant -- then deeper. A kiss that’s real enough to shatter every rule I swore I’d follow. By the time we pull apart, I can’t remember who started it, only that I didn’t really want it to stop.
Cash looks down at me, breathing rough, voice low. “Guess we gave ’em their headline.”
I take a shaky breath. “Yeah.”
But what I don’t say -- what I can’t say is that I’m terrified this isn’t just pretend anymore.