Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
WE'RE TANGLING AND UNTANGLING IN THIS WILD, ALMOST WICKED DANCE.
WYATT
I'd never tasted fear on another person's lips before.
But that's exactly what happened when Kinsley kissed me after my ride tonight—raw terror mixed with relief.
I figured having Kinsley in the stands might mess with my head and make me think too much. Turns out I was wrong. She makes everything better, including my riding. I knew exactly what Midnight Express was going to do before he did it.
Two thousand pounds of pure dynamite beneath me, and I was the calmest I'd ever been in a chute. I was riding for one person—and for once it wasn’t me.
The ride itself was textbook perfect until my boot caught in the rope. Three seconds of being dragged alongside a bull that could crush every bone in my body without breaking stride, should have been terrifying. Instead, all I could think was: Get free. Get back to her.
After an experience like that, Kinsley needs a release. She needs to go dancing and I can’t think of a better way to get her body pressed up against mine than moving her around the dance floor.
The Million Dollar Cowboy Bar sits on the corner of Cache and Broadway like a neon-lit shrine to everything that makes Jackson Hole famous. Even from half a block away, I can hear the bass line of a live band thumping through the night air.
"Have you been here before?" I ask Kinsley as we approach the entrance.
She takes in the sight before us—cowboys and cowgirls streaming in and out of the double doors and the glow of neon beer signs.
"Nope," she says, but she's grinning.
The moment we step inside, the place hits all my senses at once.
Genuine leather saddles serve as stools along a bar that stretches the length of the back wall, polished mahogany gleaming under heavy wooden chandeliers.
The walls are covered in rodeo memorabilia—championship buckles, vintage chaps, photographs of legendary riders going back decades.
Pool tables with red felt occupy one corner, already crowded with cowboys and cowgirls chalking cues and talking trash. The dance floor draws my attention because that’s where I want to spend most of my time here.
The air smells like leather and beer, with undertones of cologne and perfume from the crowd that's packed shoulder to shoulder.
Every face in the place looks familiar—riders from today's competition, sponsors, stock contractors, and the kind of rodeo groupies who follow the circuit from town to town.
"Wyatt! Over here!" Jake calls, and I spot him waving from a table near the dance floor.
He's got company—a petite blonde who's sitting so close to him she's practically in his lap, looking around like she can't believe where she is.
She's wearing the kind of clothes that say she doesn't work on a ranch but wouldn't mind finding herself a cowboy.
It looks like she did, at least for tonight.
I guide Kinsley through the crowd as we navigate between tables.
The silk of her blouse is warm under my palm, the deep emerald green making her skin glow.
She's paired it with a flowing skirt that hits just above her knees, the fabric swaying with each step, and boots that add just enough height to bring her closer to my eye level.
When she turns to check our path through the crowd, I catch the scent of that wildflower perfume that I fall asleep thinking about.
"Hey," I say as we reach the table, extending my hand to Jake’s date. "I don't think we've met."
"This is Ashley," Jake says, pulling the blonde closer to his side, but I can tell his mind's somewhere else. He keeps looking across the room, and when I follow his gaze, I can't help but grin. Madison's at the bar chatting with a tie down roper, and Jake's watching her like a hawk.
Jake, you sly dog.
Jake’s voice grabs my attention. "Ashley, meet Wyatt and Kinsley."
Ashley nods and smiles, but doesn't say much beyond a quiet hello. She's pretty enough, with the kind of nervous energy that comes from being out of her element.
We settle into the leather-covered chairs, and within minutes a waitress appears to take our order. The steaks here are legendary—thick cuts of beef that melt like butter. I'm about to suggest we order when a long arm drapes across my shoulders.
"Hey, cowboy," Brittney purrs, like she has every right to touch me. She leans down so close I can smell her perfume—something cloying and sweet that makes my stomach turn. "Miss me?"
She's wearing a hot pink tank top that's two sizes too small and shorts so short they could double as swimwear. White thigh-high boots with laces up the back complete the look—the kind of outfit designed to stop traffic and start conversations.
Jake raises his eyebrows, and Ashley looks like she wants to disappear under the table. The waitress spins on her heel and takes off like a shot.
Before I can reply Brittney leans closer to my ear and whispers, “We need to talk—in private.”
I glance at Kinsley, and the expression on her face makes my blood feel like fire for entirely different reasons. Her blue eyes have gone ice-cold, and there's a set to her mouth that says she's about two seconds away from introducing Brittney to the business end of her temper. It’s kind of hot.
I remove Brittney's arm from around my shoulders; my movements deliberate and firm. "I'm here with my girl tonight." I put an edge of warning in my voice. I mean it, I don’t want her coming over again.
I stand and take Kinsley's hand, pulling her to her feet with the kind of possessive gesture that should make my intentions crystal clear to anyone watching. "Let's dance."
Kinsley doesn't miss a beat. She hooks one arm around my neck and runs her other hand down my jawline in a touch that's pure claiming. The contact sends heat straight through me and I've already forgotten what's-her-name.
Jake whistles low, raising his arm to signal the waitress. "We're gonna need some drinks over here, because these two are heating up the place."
I don't look back at Brittney as I lead Kinsley toward the dance floor. Don't need to. The message was delivered, received, and understood.
The band's playing something slow and sweet.
I draw Kinsley into my arms, one hand settling at her waist while the other captures her fingers. She fits against me like she was made for this, her body warm and pliant.
“Wyatt?” she asks while avoiding my gaze. “How well do you know her?”
I do not want to talk about this. “She won the date with a cowboy when I was the cowboy. We went to dinner and I dropped her off at the front of her hotel. She seems to think it was more than that.”
“The fans are relentless, huh?” she jokes. There’s something in her tone that’s not quite right and I want to fix it.
“She shouldn’t bother us again,” I reassure her.
“I’m not upset at you sending RodeoBrittney running.” She tilts her head, mischief gleaming in her blue eyes. "But, I don't remember agreeing to be your girl."
The challenge in her voice makes me grin.
So that’s what she’s worried about? "No?
" I pull her close, and my hand settles at the small of her back, fingers spread wide against the silk of her blouse, and when I apply just the slightest pressure to guide her into the next step, she responds like we're sharing the same skin.
"Nope." She draws the word out, playing with me. "Pretty sure that's the kind of thing a woman should be asked about."
I spin her out gently, then reel her back in until we're chest to chest, her breath mingling with mine. "You want me to ask?"
The tempo shifts before she can answer—the band kicking into something faster, more playful. Kinsley spins out of my arms with a laugh, not answering my question, and suddenly we're moving together in a way that makes everything else in the bar fade to background noise.
This woman can dance.
"Where have you been hiding these moves?" I murmur as I spin her again. Her skirt flares, and when I draw her back to me, she comes willingly, her palm settling over my heart.
"Oh, you like my moves?" The challenge in her voice makes my blood run hot.
"Like?" I slide my arm around her waist and lift her, slow and deliberate. "Girl, I'm obsessed with your moves."
Without hesitation, she hooks her leg over my hip, the movement sending electricity straight through my veins. I lower her slowly, letting her body slide against mine until her boots touch the floor again.
We're tangling and untangling in this wild, almost wicked dance—spinning apart only to come crashing back together. There's only her heat against me, the silk of her skin under my hands, and the way she moves like she was born to be in my arms.
The song winds down, and I bring her back against me just as the last notes fade. She's breathing hard, cheeks flushed.
"That," she says, still catching her breath, "was not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
She laughs easily. "Honestly? I figured you'd be one of those guys who just shuffles around and calls it dancing."
I laugh, pulling her close as the band starts another slow song. "Sweetheart, my mama didn't raise me to embarrass myself on a dance floor."
We dance through three more songs, each one better than the last. By the time the band takes a break, we're both grinning like fools.
"I need a drink," she says, fanning herself with her hand as we make our way back to the table.
"Two drinks," I agree. "Maybe three."
Jake and Ashley are making conversation when we return, her earlier nervousness seeming to have melted away—at least with him. And I feel sort of sorry for the girl—she ain’t got a chance with Jake after the way he’s been watching Madison all night.
"I'll be right back," I tell Kinsley, squeezing her shoulder. I put an order in at the bar for some soda and head to the men's room. The hallway leading to the restrooms is quieter than the main bar. I'm almost to the door when I hear a familiar voice coming from the far end of the hall.
"Yes, I'm here with Wyatt," she's saying, and my blood runs cold. "He's such a good dancer."
I whip that direction and stare. Brittney’s got her phone pressed to her ear, talking loud enough to be heard over the music and facing the back wall. I should keep walking, push through the door and mind my own business, but I heard my name, and I can't leave it alone.
"He's so handsome in his blue pearl snap shirt—I just love him so much."
I glance down at my shirt and curse under my breath. She is talking about me. I check behind me to make sure no one's watching, then step closer to the wall.
"I'm not drinking," Brittney continues, and I can hear the tears in her voice now. "He's being a perfect gentleman. We're having a great time. I just don't think he will ever want to settle down—you know how roughies are."
She's wiping at her eyes with her free hand.
Is she mental? She's creating an entire relationship out of thin air. I should leave, pretend I never heard any of this. But I'm frozen in place, trying to process what I'm witnessing.
She looks up at the ceiling as she half spins, and I press myself against the wall, hoping the shadows hide me.
"I know you have it handled," she says into the phone, her voice breaking slightly. "I believe you. Okay, I'll have a good time tonight. I promise. Love you, Daddy."
She ends the call and stands there for a moment, composing herself.
I push into the men's room, my heart hammering against my ribs like a spooked horse trying to kick its way out of a stall.
The conversation keeps playing in my head. I know you have it handled. Handled what? And why is she lying to her father about being here with me when I made it clear I'm with Kinsley?
I shudder to think what her daddy must be like if she's that desperate to please him.
I suck in air. It's not my problem.
I've got enough complications in my life without adding whatever drama Brittney's carrying around.
My attention needs to stay on the woman waiting for me back at that table.
I dry my hands and straighten my shirt. Whatever game she's playing with her father, whatever pressure she's under, it's got nothing to do with me.
Time to get back to my woman.