31. Come Home To Me
31
COME HOME TO ME
DAKOTA
L ust is such a little shit.
On Sunday, I can’t stop staring at the dimples on Wyatt’s lower back, just above his ass cheeks, as he reaches for a coffee mug in the kitchen, wearing nothing but a pair of workout shorts slung low on his hips.
“See something you like?” he drawls.
I snap my gaze up to find him smirking that smirk that reminds me nothing of my summer boy and everything of the sizzling kiss at The General. But I don’t have the headspace to be thinking about electric kisses today, no matter how much I want to. I need to focus on the rodeo that I have to leave for in… I check the time on my phone.
Dammit. Ten minutes.
I scoot back from the granite counter, half smiling up at him. “Yeah, you , but I have to go. I was just leaving.”
“You sure about that?” He cocks a brow, sipping his coffee. “’Cause it looked like you were admiring my ass, not walking out the door.”
“It is a nice ass,” I say, aiming for casual, but the words are tight, like I’ve been sucking helium. “Looks like it’s carved out of marble. Michelangelo would be admiring that view.”
He rests his elbows on the counter, leaning forward. “I do a lot of lunges. Maybe I’ll let you feel it sometime.”
I mimic his posture. “How about you let me feel it now?”
“Mmmm.” He leans back, sipping his coffee, teasing me. He looks too good in the morning. “See, I would let you feel me up, but you have to leave for the rodeo, and I want to take my time with you, honey.”
This new blasé confidence makes my heart pound a little harder. He looks so unaffected, sipping coffee in the kitchen with his hair tied back and a few strands falling across his forehead. Meanwhile, I’m finally understanding exactly what historical romance authors mean when they claim their loins are burning.
I can’t do anything about my burning loins now, so I grab my boots. “Fine. You’ll have to let me feel up your marble ass another time. Let’s hope a bull doesn’t get me. I hear they’ve got some mean ones to pick from this round.”
That comment is 60 percent joke, 20 percent gut-wrenching fear, and 20 percent unadulterated excitement.
A second later, my back is being pushed up against the wall.
Wyatt grips my chin, turning me toward him, and then his lips crash against mine. I’m so stunned that I don’t respond at first, but then his tongue invades my mouth, and I’m kissing him back just as fiercely.
Our teeth bang together, and there’s this urgent edge to his kiss that sends a ripple of fear through me. It feels like one of those scenes from the forties, where a newlywed husband kisses his wife goodbye before heading off to war—desperate, frantic, and tinged with worry.
He pulls back just as quickly, and whatever emotion he poured into that kiss, he hides from his face, stroking my cheeks with his thumbs. “Stop talking about a bull getting you. You’ll be good. I wish I could be there, but I’ve got to watch Vienna today since my moms are delivering flowers.”
“It’s okay,” I pant out, still gasping. Wyatt Patterson is one hell of a kisser. “I’ll be fine. Take care of the little devil. She needs you more than me.”
“ I need you, though.” He kisses me again, rough. “Don’t forget that. You’re important to me.”
That shoots two jolts of emotion right to my heart—unease and warmth. Unease because I can’t make any promises, and warmth because I’ve never been needed. It makes me want to hold onto the rope with everything I’ve got so I can come home to them.
I stand on my toes to reach his lips, giving him a sweet kiss. “You’re important to me too.”
My life might be unpredictable, but I channel Wyatt’s energy, push those thoughts aside, and head to the front door. Except, I forget to give Vienna a kiss goodbye, so I turn back around and drop one to her blonde curls as she clashes two plastic vegetables together on her play mat. Wyatt watches the entire time with a blank face, as if he’s shielding his emotions.
I almost make it to the door handle before he stops me again. “Hey, Dakota?”
“Yeah?” I glance back at him, and a stiff smile jumps to his lips.
He winks, a spark glinting in his eyes like fool’s gold. I can’t tell if that happiness is real. “Ride ’em hard, honey, and then make sure you come home to me.”
I salute him with two fingers, even though it’s a promise I can’t keep. “Yes, sir.”
Thanks to Wyatt’s drugging kisses, I forgot one very important thing before I left for the rodeo this morning—my protective vest.
Rookie mistake.
Ever since a famous bull rider died from being gored by a bull, the rodeos won’t let anyone compete without one.
“Dammit,” I mutter, frantically searching my bag in the back pens. It’s where all the competitors hang out before they ride, so it’s always a bustling area. “Where the hell is it?”
“You all good there, Cowboy Killer?”
I glance over my shoulder and see Nash, one of the younger bull riders, watching me with a grin. Everyone calls him Smiley because he’s always wearing a goofy-ass smile. He’s just turned eighteen, so he’s one of the only bull riders who’s still grinning because he’s full of naive excitement.
“No, Smiley. I’m not fine,” I say, rummaging through my bag. “I think I left my protective vest at home.”
He hops off the metal fence, striding forward in his worn boots, his baby-blue eyes assessing me. “You can borrow mine for your ride. We look to be about the same size, but just make sure you give it back, or I’ll be in a world of hurt.”
Nash’s always been a thoughtful one, but being an inner cynic, I say, “Why would you do that for me?”
He shrugs. There’s that goofy grin again. “Because we’re a team. We’re all risking our lives together, so I’ve got your back. You ride after me anyway, so I’ll make sure it’s nice and sweaty for you.” He laughs.
I can’t stand toxic positivity, but Nash’s got authentic positivity, which has my dimples popping in a rare smile. “Thanks, Nash. Really. I owe you one.”
Technically, we all compete individually, but we’re a team because we have each other’s backs in this sport.
“Damn, girl! Look at those dimples! You can smile,” he teases, waving a hand. If anyone else said something like that, I’d be scowling, but Nash pulls it off because he oozes a good-natured spirit. “And you don’t owe me a thing. It’s all good, Cowboy Killer. Best get ready for the draw.”
The draw is where all the bull riders gather to get paired with the bulls. It’s random, and we all sit on these uncomfortable wooden stools as the announcer booms out pairings, anxiously waiting to hear our fate.
Nash struts away, giving high-fives to every cowboy in sight, and I head over to the dusty warm-up area to meet my dad. The rodeo grounds are alive with energy, punctuated by the snorts of restless animals. Dust swirls around us as cowboys prepare for their rides, adjusting gear and bantering.
I find my dad by the water coolers, coiling a lasso for a calf-roper. He hands the cowboy the rope with a pat on the back. Colt Cutler never smiles, but he always lends a helping hand.
When I saunter up to him, he slaps my shoulder. “You ready for the draw? I hear Diablo’s a tough one, so watch out if you get him. That bull’s got a wicked spin and a mean snarl, so put all that two-stepping to good use. Stay loose and—”
“Flow like good tequila. Smooth and steady,” I finish, strapping on my chaps. “I know, Pops.”
He squeezes my shoulders hard, like he’s trying to transfer all his love, concern, and unspoken worries into me. My dad isn’t physically affectionate with many people, but he is with me, and I'm the same way.
I’ll never hug a stranger—not after Boone called me an awkward hugger because I let go too soon. The only two people I like to hug are my dad and Wyatt, and Vienna too, so I guess that’s three people now.
My dad gives me pointers for the next fifteen minutes while I stretch and then plants a scruffy kiss on my cheek. “I love you, darlin’. More than life itself.”
“Love you more, Pops.”
He taps the brim of my hat, his brown eyes crinkling in my favorite way, but in their depths, I can see all that worry he tries so hard to hide. Our incessant I love yous might seem like a lot, but it’s a tradition I’ll never break. If something ever happened to me, I want my last words to be I love you to my dad.
Navigating the dusty corridors of the animal stalls, I weave through the bristling horses and head toward the bull riders’ section for the draw.
That familiar spark of excitement flashes in my chest and quickly grows into a flame of adrenaline as I imagine all those people watching me ride, and that feeling is why I keep doing this. When things go right, and you stay on for all eight seconds, there’s no better high.
It makes all the lows worth the climb.
I find my open seat smack-dab in the row of cowboys. No cowgirls in sight. As the only woman, I catch several curious stares and hushed whispers that ripple through the dry heat, but I let their doubts roll right off me. I’m feeling good today.
Real good.
Keeping my head high, I settle down next to a cowboy with his black hat tipped down, but when he looks up and those familiar ocean eyes meet mine, I nearly fall off my stool.
All that anger comes boiling back.
I remember the shit he said in that interview about how I’d never make it in this career, and it broke me, having the person I thought I loved turn against me.
I remember sobbing on the shower floor that night, questioning everything about whether I had what it takes to do this.
And then, I remember stepping back into the arena, feeling like an imposter while I told myself over and over that I had what it takes.
I picked myself back up .
And I’m damn proud of myself.
“Well, howdy there, stranger,” he drawls, chewing on that damn toothpick like always. I used to worry that thing would poke my eye out.
I dig my nails into my palms. “What the hell are you doing here, Boone?”