Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Main Street shimmered with garland and multi-colored lights strung from buildings and lampposts. Wreaths hung in every shop window, ribbons bright against the frost.
Beside Tessa, Cade shifted like a man walking into enemy territory. He tugged at his trail coat, scowling deeper at each glowing reindeer and inflatable snowman.
“Never seen the like.” He grunted.
“It’s called festive.”
He harrumphed. “Witchcraft, more like it.”
She laughed. “You’re a stick in the mud.”
“I’m practical.” He tilted his chin up and puffed his chest. He was proud of it. “This is folly.”
She pushed out her bottom lip. “You’re no fun.”
“Let’s get this over with.”
“Here we go.”
Inside Harper’s Clothing Emporium, a life-sized, motion-detector animatronic Santa welcomed them, patting his round belly and crying, “Ho, ho, ho.”
Cade jumped and spun a hand to his hip as if going for a gun. “What in the Sam Hill!”
“Part of the Christmas spirit.” She tried not to laugh. How disoriented would she be if she got dumped into 1878? Probably not half as cool as Cade was about 2025. “C’mon in.”
Cade didn’t move. He narrowed his eyes at the mannequins in the window, plastic men grinning in quilted vests and plaid shirts. “That’s not right.”
“They’re dummies. They’re not real.”
“Dummies or not, no man stands stiff like that unless he’s been nailed to a board.”
This time she chuckled and crooked a finger, motioning for him to follow.
Gaze darting to take in his surroundings, he eased inside. His eyes grew wider as he took in the rows of folded jeans, shelves of shirts, and a spinning rack of scarves. Lost. He was lost.
Customers in the store ogled, not even trying to hide their curiosity. Well, he did cut an impressive sight.
She sized him and guessed at his waist size. Likely a 34, and with his height, at least a foot above her five-one, he’d take a 33-inch inseam or longer. Not that she was noticing how long those legs were… much.
Tessa grabbed a pair of dark wash denim and thrust them into his hands. “Start here.”
He stared at the jeans as if they might wrap around his throat and strangle him. “What do you call this?”
“Jeans. Wranglers, to be specific. Perfect for you.”
His mouth twitched in a faint smile. “Wranglers? I’m a wrangler. Don’t need britches claiming the same.”
A flutter flitted through her stomach. The first hint of humor she’d seen from him, a crack in the stoic cowboy facade.
She picked out a blue chambray button-down shirt. “Let’s get you to a fitting room.”
“What’s that?”
“Where you try on the clothes.” She put out a hand to guide him.
He balked, stepping back on his heels. “You mean take off my clothes and put these on right here?”
“It’ll be private. You’ll see.”
He narrowed his eyes. Gad, but he was a suspicious one.
Easy, Mitchell, he’s a fish who’s flopped clean out of his pond.
She led him to the cubicle at the back of the shop. He stood there holding the jeans and the shirt, an uncertain expression on his face.
“I don’t know about this.” Cade scratched his chin. His fingers against his beard made a sexy raspy sound.
One of the gawking customers whipped out her phone and started filming him.
Tessa glared at her. “Do you mind?”
The twenty-something tourist, in her Yellowstone T-shirt, asked, “What is he, a historical reenactor?”
“Something like that.” Tessa wriggled her fingers at the woman and her friend. “Now shoo.”
“He’s hot,” the friend said, giggling as they walked away.
Tessa turned back to Cade. “See why you need modern clothes?”
The encounter with the women seemed to convince him. With a scowl, he ducked into the cubicle.
Tessa stood guard outside, grinning like an idiot. Her body wired like she’d downed a monster drink. She waited.
And waited.
And waited.
“Cade?”
A deep growl came through the door. “This contraption’s got more fastenings than a cavalry saddle. What’s this little brass tooth line?”
Ack, she should have gotten him a button fly. “It’s a zipper. Pull it up.”
“I’ll rip something if I do.”
“You won’t. Trust me.”
The door cracked open a sliver, one gray eye glared at her. “You expect me to walk about with a metal trap holding my britches closed?”
“Welcome to the twenty-first century.”
The door shut again, rattling on its hinges. More muttering, a long stretch of silence, then… “Tessa?”
Poor baby. “Yes?”
“You best come in here before I strangle myself.”
Heat crept up her neck. “I’m sure it’s fine. Come on out here and let me see.”
“Lady, if I come out like this, they’ll arrest me for indecency.”
“What’s the problem?” Seriously, how complicated was a zipper?
“The metal teeth thing. It’s stuck.”
Umm. “Did you pull the tab up?”
“Yes, I pulled the tab up. I’m not an idiot. It went halfway and now it won’t go up or down.”
She heard rustling, a muffled curse. “Can you unjam it?”
“I’ve been trying. It’s caught.”
Oh dear. “Your underwear is stuck in the zipper?”
“Could you say it louder? I don’t think they heard you in Wyoming.”
She bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Can you get it unstuck?”
“If I could, would I be having this conversation with you?”
Fair point.
She pressed her forehead against the door. She knew it was a terrible idea. But she also couldn’t leave him trapped in there. Standing on tiptoe, she scanned the shop for a male attendant. No one in sight beyond the girl behind the checkout counter.
“Tessa?” He sounded less irritated now, more desperate.
“Okay, okay.” You’ll regret this. Yeah, well, no kidding.
Hauling in a deep breath, she slipped inside the tiny fitting room and ironed herself against the door, trying to give him some nonexistent space. His Stetson, coat, vest, and shirt hung on the hook beside her head, along with his worn leather chaps.
And sweet mother of—
The jeans gaped open below his navel, revealing a glimpse of long woolen underwear.
His white undershirt clung to his chest, outlining muscles so defined she itched to trace them.
His hair was mussed from pulling shirts on and off, the flush across his cheekbones softening him into someone younger, unguarded.
Her throat closed up. Mistake. Huge mistake. Get out now!
“Stop staring and help.” He scowled as the tops of his ears turned beet red.
“I’m not staring. I’m assessing the situation.” She was totally staring. “Okay, let me see.”
She stepped closer, the only possible direction was closer or out of the cubicle, and peered down at the zipper.
Oh, this was bad. The zipper had caught a substantial fold of his underwear, bunching it up and jamming the metal teeth.
“How did you even manage this?”
“I pulled the thing like you said.”
“You have to hold the fabric taut while you…never mind.” She reached for the zipper, then froze. “I’m going to have to touch you… it… er…” She cleared her throat. “To fix it.”
“I figured that out before I called you in here.”
Right. Okay. She could do this. She was an adult. This was fine.
She crouched in front of him. A drone-eye view of this would blow up TikTok. Bracing herself, she grabbed the zipper with her finger and thumb and tried to wiggle it free.
“I tried that,” he said.
“Not helpful.”
She leaned closer and put one hand on his hip for balance as she examined the stuck fabric. Dear God, she was touching his hip!
“Hold still.” She tugged gently at the material.
“I’m a statue.”
“You’re breathing.”
“That’s necessary for living, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Well, breathe less.” She tugged harder, but the underwear didn’t budge. Instead the wool twisted deeper into the teeth.
He held his breath.
“I’m gonna hafta yank it.” She glanced up at him from her compromising position.
“Just do it.”
“Brace yourself.” She tugged upward on his underwear at the same time she pulled down on the zipper.
He stared up at the ceiling, hands pushing against opposite sides of the cubicle.
“Well,” she said, staring at the now-functional zipper and the rip in his underwear, “the zipper works now.”
“Good.” He pressed his lips together, as if stopping more words from coming out.
She went to demonstrate by zipping the jeans up, but her knuckles brushed against his—oh.
Oh.
He was hard. Quite hard indeed.
Heat flooded her body. She was crouched at his waist, her face inches from his obvious arousal, and the tiny dressing room had no air at all.
“I’ll do it!” He swatted her hand away.
She hopped up too fast and wobbled.
He shot out a hand to steady her, bringing them chest to chest. He tried to angle his hips away, to be a gentleman, but there was nowhere to go in the tiny space.
“Sorry.” He stared up at the ceiling.
“For what? Biology?
His hand tightened on her arm. “For thinking things I shouldn’t be thinking.”
“Things?”
“Tessa.” Her name was a warning. He lowered his gaze to meet hers again.
She placed her palms flat against his chest, feeling his heart racing under her touch. She should step back. Way back. Instead, she peered into those storm-gray eyes gone turbulent.
“Um… er…” Tessa fumbled for the door handle, her whole body on fire, her brain short-circuiting from the feel of him, the look in his eyes, the knowledge that she affected him as much as he affected her.
“I’ll wait outside,” she said, and practically fell out of the dressing room.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. Desire coiled in her belly, hot and insistent.
She came to Harper’s to buy a cowboy some jeans, not to discover that her body could betray her over a man who thought electricity was witchcraft.
But that was the problem. The gorgeous guy from 1878, with his old-world honor, crumbled her modern defenses.
And now, she was standing in a department store with tourists gawking and her common sense screaming run!
Tessa was in major trouble.
Because no amount of historical displacement, cultural barriers, or rational thinking could extinguish the simple, devastating truth.
She wanted Cade Mitchell with a hunger that terrified her.
* * *
On the way to Zeke’s diner, the jeans whisked with every step, loud enough that he half-expected folks on Main Street to turn and stare. Cade shoved his hands in his pockets and tried his best to appear unbothered.
The denim was softer than anything he had ever worn, but it clung in places making him hyperaware of every movement. These modern pants were designed to make a man think about his body.
Or have women think about it.
Cade kept himself between Tessa and the street as they walked. Habit. She didn’t need to know the reason, mud, horses, runaway wheels weren’t much threat in this strange town, but the position eased him all the same.
She strode quick for her size, head up, shoulders back. He lengthened his step, then checked it back, learning her rhythm. She was five foot nothing, but she carried herself like she owned the sidewalk, eyes sparking when she glanced at the glittered shop windows. Then, she’d dart a glance at him.
He could feel her sideways looks like a caresses.
Inside, he was still unnerved. Hellfire. Unnerved didn’t begin to cover it. He couldn’t shake the feel of her, tugging at the cursed zipper, her fingers brushing him through the material. The crown of her dark head so close to his…
Lordie. He forced his mind away from the image, but it kept circling back like a horse trained to return home.
A grown man who couldn’t figure out a simple fastening. Wanting her followed fast, and that part scared him more. He built his whole life on being the reliable one, the one who kept his head when whiskey and women made other men stupid. Control had been his currency, his reputation, his identity.
Yet one day with her, and he came apart like a cheap saddle in the rain. Standing there while she worked that zipper, his body responding like he was some green kid at his first dance. The memory alone burned his nape.
It was nothing. A cramped room. A ridiculous pair of pants. Biology. Any man would’ve reacted the same with a beautiful woman’s hands that close to—
“You okay?” Tessa asked. “You’ve got a faraway look in your eyes.”
“Just thinking.”
“Dangerous habit,” she said. “I avoid it when possible.”
Not true. He saw how her mind worked, quick and smart. The way she calculated the total in her head before the register showed it. The way she figured out his sizes by looking, getting everything right on the first try.
If he was smart, he would wall off his feelings and focus on getting back home.
Forget the way Tessa’s hair caught the late afternoon sun, turning black to midnight blue in places.
Or how she walked like she had springs attached to the bottoms of her boots.
Or the memory of her hands on him. Or how her breath hitched when she realized he was aroused.
Definitely not on that.
He fixed his gaze on the street ahead, studying it like terrain he should memorize.
The storefronts with their picture windows full of things he couldn’t name.
The smooth road with yellow lines down the center.
The method of transport parked at angles, all shine and incomprehensible machinery. This was the world now.
He could manage this. He could learn the rules, master the skills, become whoever he needed to be to survive here.
He couldn’t depend on a woman who threatened to unravel everything he thought he knew about himself.
Not on someone whose nearness knocked the rules clean out of his head, left him wanting with the reckless longing he spent years nailing shut.
The neon sign for Zeke’s buzzed at the end of the block, casting blue and red across the frost that was already forming on car hoods.
Through the window, he caught sight of Wyatt and Eliza in a booth, leaning toward each other like two people sharing secrets.
Comfortable with each other as if Wyatt hadn’t just crossed time itself ten days ago.
Ten days, and Wyatt seemed settled. Happy, even. Like he belonged in this impossible place with its strange rules. Like he found something worth giving up everything for.
Tessa tugged her scarf loose, exposing the curve of her neck, and peered up at him. Her eyes bright with anticipation or nerves. “Ready?”
He wasn’t. Wasn’t ready to sit across from her and pretend his whole body wasn’t tuned to her frequency. Wasn’t ready to watch Wyatt and Eliza and see what ten days in this world could do to a man.
But Tessa was already reaching for the door, and her smile was like a rope thrown to a drowning man.
He wanted to run but he walked inside with her anyway.