19. Our Spot
19
OUR SPOT
DAKOTA
H oney.
It’s new, but surprisingly, I don’t hate when Patterson calls me that. No man’s ever given me a sweet pea nickname before. People always give me ones like Cutler or Cowboy Killer, but honey is… cute.
Girly.
I’ve never been girly to anyone.
“Oh my god, Patterson,” I say as we drive. “Do you remember that time you got arrested in South Padre for drunk peeing on the beach and made me bail you out of jail? What’s with you and drunk peeing?”
He gives me a sidelong grin. “Hey, I’ve got better bladder control now, so how about we move past that?”
“Okay, I’ll try, but it’s still one of my favorite memories, bailing you out. We blasted Sturgill Simpson into the sunrise the entire drive home.”
The hot wind whips through the open windows as he drives down back roads to our old spot at Cibolo Creek, the sunset spraying us with orange rays. He’s got one arm draped over the steering wheel, and the other is rubbing distracting circles on my upper thigh.
It’s how we always used to drive. Except, come to think of it, he always had his hand on my knee, not my thigh, growing up. And those tiny circles used to be comfortable, not blazing my skin. But it is a million degrees outside. Sweat won’t stop dripping down the back of my neck.
“But that wasn’t nearly as bad as the time you made me meet that random stranger in that fast-food parking lot to sell your lava lamp from Facebook Marketplace,” he retorts with a laugh. “Who even uses Facebook Marketplace?”
I slap a hand to my chest. “Me. I’m an old soul.”
“Well, I thought I was going to die when that guy pulled up in a white sprinter van.”
“Oh, please,” I say with a roll of my eyes. “Don’t be dramatic. You were fine .”
He throws me a playful scowl from the driver’s side. “His username was a play on some famous serial killer.”
I chuckle into the wind, feeling the lightest I’ve felt in a long while. “Oh, shit. I forgot about that. Well, at least we made eighteen dollars off the lava lamp.”
“Yeah.” He snorts. “Risking my life for eighteen dollars was definitely worth it.”
“Goodness, the NHL has made someone a wee bit high-maintenance, hasn’t it?” I nudge his shoulder. “It’s a good thing we’re going back to our spot because we need to get you back to your roots.”
“My roots? I grew up in Chicago before moving to Nashville.”
“Yeah, but you were born in Texas. Therefore, you’re a Texan. Oh!” I blurt, remembering another thing. “Do you remember that mood ring proposal you did when you were eight? We were so fucking cute, planning our little wedding. What happened to it?”
He scratches his jaw. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
“Damn. I always wanted that ring back.”
That’s how the rest of our drive to Cibolo Creek continues. We volley stories back and forth, reminiscing about summers spent picnicking under oak trees and stargazing in truck beds until we pull up to the creek where I saved Wyatt’s life in that flash flood.
Most people would avoid the place where they nearly drowned, but it became “our spot” because he doesn’t remember this place as a death trap, but as the spot we met each other. To him, life isn’t just half-full; it’s full to the brim, and I wish I could be more like that…
I’m a half-empty kind of gal.
It’s easier to live life expecting people to let you down because they always do, which saddens me because before Boone, I believed the best in people.
We step out of Daisy Blue and walk up to the towering cypress trees at Cibolo Creek. Sunlight filters through the leafy canopy, casting dappled patterns on the little minnows darting through the crystal water. I can see all the way down to the rocky bottom. The old tire swing sways gently, still hanging from one of the massive branches, like something out of a country song.
“Come on!” I shout, stripping out of my red sundress dress. “Let’s jump in. See if that old tire can still hold us.”
He doesn’t answer, so I look over my shoulder to find him staring at my exposed skin. That’s when I remember I wore my fanciest red lingerie tonight because I thought I was going to end up in bed with a tourist. I like my muscular body enough, despite all the scars from bull riding, and he’s seen me naked thanks to a few whoopsies over the years, so this is nothing new.
“Come on, Patterson. Stop gaping and get in here.”
I expect him to blush and get all flustered like normal, but instead, his lips curve into this slightly arrogant half-grin.
“If you say so,” he drawls.
He keeps his eyes fixed on me as he unbuttons his plaid shirt, revealing his stacked eight-pack. I can’t seem to look away. Reaching down, he undoes his zipper. The sound scrapes through the babbling creek, and the pièce de résistance—he undoes his belt with one hand.
My mouth gets a tad dry, watching him undress so casually. When did undoing a belt with one hand become sexy? If that’s the new bar for men, women everywhere are ruined.
He strips out of his jeans until he’s standing there in his black boxer briefs, and heat slides down my spine. I can feel the ghost of his fingers rubbing circles on my thigh.
He really has turned into an attractive man. If he weren’t my oldest friend, if we didn’t harbor all these secrets together, I’d seriously consider dragging him back to my bedroom. But Patterson deserves more than a one-night stand, and every time I even think of kissing him, all those memories of our younger selves pop into my head.
I don’t even think the sex with him would be all that great because we were friends first. I’m imagining bumpy, flavorless sex, which isn’t worth ruining a friendship.
It’s beginning to feel borderline inappropriate, my staring, so I pull my gaze away to the worn rope and tug. “Think this tire swing can hold me?”
“Don’t you dare do it, Dakota,” he warns. “That branch looks like it’s about to fall off.”
“Oh, Patterson,” I say with a flutter of my lashes. “You should know by now that if you tell me not to do something, I’m damn well gonna do it.”
“Dakota Rae Cutler, don’t you dare—”
I leap onto the rope and swing out over the creek.
At the peak of the arc, I let go, plunging into the cool water below with a hearty splash. The water is deep enough that my toes don’t touch the rocky bottom.
I pop my head back up to see Wyatt jumping in after me, and then he breaks the water surface, shaking off the droplets that cling to his hair. The sunlight catches on the strands, turning them into a shimmering halo.
For a second, I just look at him, forgetting about the Pbr and everything else. My life has always been so fast-paced that I want to appreciate this slow moment.
“I told you not to jump,” he teases, shaking his hair.
“What’re you going to do about it?” I challenge.
He catches my wrist, dragging me through the cool stream into his warmth. “Keep you close. I’m not letting you get away this time.”
He moves through the glittering water until his bare chest brushes mine, and every breath of mine brings my chest closer to his. Wyatt grabs my waist, then trails his hands down my thighs to hook around the backs of my knees, guiding my legs to wrap around him beneath the sparkling water. I’m so surprised by the motion that I let him handle me. I can feel all the places our bodies are touching—and all the places they aren’t.
“What’re you doing?” I breathe out.
“Holding you.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to.”
He captures my gaze, and the cicadas, the rushing water, it all sounds quiet compared to my heavy gasps.He was always a physically affectionate man, but something about this feels different. I want to swim away from him almost as much as I want to stay wrapped around him.
“I missed this place,” I whisper, clinging to his wide shoulders. “It’s been a while since I’ve been back here.”
“Me too. Did you ever take anyone else here?” he asks, swaying me in the stream. “To our spot?”
“Never. This is our spot. I didn’t want to bring anyone else here after you left.”
He pauses, frowns. “Not even Boone?”
“No. I’d never take Boone here.”
Wyatt stares at me, a pinch in his brows as he seems to wrestle with a question, until he finally blurts, “What happened between you two? I never knew why you ended things.”
I don’t want to have some deep conversation about the hardest parts of my past. It’s exhausting. I’d rather crack open some chardonnay with Lana and watch a random dating show than talk about my broken engagement, but Wyatt’s asking, and he has a way of making the deep things feel lighter.
I focus on the minnows nibbling my toes rather than his penetrating stare. “Boone and I… We were too competitive with each other. When he got offered a spot on the Vegas Stampede Pbr team, he asked me to move with him. He wanted me to give up my dream and gave me an ultimatum. Him or bull riding. I chose bull riding, and he didn’t like that, so I called it off.”
It surprisingly wasn’t a difficult decision, which made me realize we were never destined. I got caught up in the passion and thought that meant the flame of love would burn forever.
Wyatt’s arms wrap around me in a solid embrace, urging me forward until my head is tucked beneath his chin. “I’m sorry, Dakota. It’s never easy to make a big decision like that.”
I interlace my hands behind his back, locking him against me in the water, feeling at peace in his arms despite my racing heart. “It was for the best. Any man who asks me to choose between who I love and what I love isn’t the man for me, but that’s not even the worst thing he did…”
His back muscles are taut under my touch. “What else did he do?”
“After I called things off, he was pissed. Real pissed. He did an interview for the Pbr and made this comment about how I’d never be a threat to anyone ’cause I’d never make it in this sport. He said I didn’t have what it takes, and never would. Some of his biggest fans came after me, and that’s why everyone started calling me Cowboy Killer, since it was clear from his attitude that I broke his heart.”
Wyatt goes quiet, which he always does when he’s angry, so I continue. “But it still put all these doubts in my head. After that, I questioned everything. Whether or not I could really do this. If I had what it takes. It’s really thrown me off my game, and I hate him a little for putting all those fears in my head. I think he broke me. Bull riding requires a lot of mental resilience, and that’s why I can’t stay on now because there’s all this doubt in my mind.”
His fingers dig into my waist. “You don’t need me to tell you this, but you can do anything , Dakota Cutler, so don’t listen to a fucking word out of that prick’s mouth.”
Well, shit.
I like hearing him spit out dirty curses.
It takes a truckload of problems to rile up Wyatt Patterson, so rage is an emotion I rarely see from him, if ever.
But it’s refreshing to see him feeling this injustice as deeply as me. I’ve spent so much of my life fighting my own battles and carving out a path in a male-dominated world, that it’s nice to have someone by my side who wants to fight on my behalf.
But a second later, his bubble of anger pops. “You know, I never liked that guy. He was never good enough for you.”
I smile up at him, the sunset making his blond hair glow like a halo. I knew my summer boy couldn’t stay mad for long. Grumpy? is my modus operandi, not his.
“Yeah, he’s an asshole,” I agree.
“Why do you always date assholes?” he says, pulling us deeper into the water.
I don’t miss a beat. “I don’t date assholes, not anymore. I sleep with them. There’s a difference.”
“Fine,” he says with an eye roll, his hands skating up my waist, leaving a prickly path of goosebumps. “Why do you only sleep with assholes?”
I shrug against his solid chest. He’s so warm. “Because they tend to be good in bed, unfortunately.”
“You know…” He arches a brow. “Nice guys can be good in bed, too.”
My breath hitches at his low tone.
“I wouldn’t know.” I gasp a little, unable to look away from his penetrating stare. “I’ve never dated a nice guy.”
“Maybe you should change that.” He leans forward to murmur in my ear. “Us gentlemen can be really generous.”
My throat goes from dry to parched. “Are you offering up your services in the bedroom?” I try to joke, but my voice is too tight.
I’m imagining it now. Him. Us , tangling in bedsheets, scraping toes down each other’s calves. I shouldn’t be thinking of this, but I can’t stop. He’s acting so different tonight, and I’m not used to this brazen confidence from him. This is starting to feel too friendly.
His calloused fingertips brush my bra clasp beneath the water, tracing the valley of my spine, and my shiver has nothing to do with the cool river. “I’m just saying, if you ever get tired of sleeping with assholes… my bedroom’s only a few steps away from yours.”
All I do is nod because, for the first time ever, Wyatt Patterson has left me speechless.