Chapter 19
aria
The day’s worn me thin.
It’s been a while since I’ve been in the company of cowboys and ranchers.
The rest of the world may have progressed when it comes to women’s rights, but a lot of these men still think that it’s perfectly okay to call a woman a little lady and talk about women’s udders.
I’ve been asked (several times) when I’m putting Longhorn up for sale, as they eye Maverick like a side of beef and tell me there are plenty of other fish in the sea—just in case I’m interested in something that isn’t Kincaid Farms or Maverick Kincaid.
The crowd’s smaller now, late afternoon sun streaking across the fairgrounds in ribbons of gold. Dust hangs in the air, stirred up by boots and hooves.
Somewhere, someone’s playing an old fiddle tune, and the tired rhythm of a two-step filters out over the speakers.
I’m ready to go home.
I’m about to ask Maverick if we can head out—already regretting that I rode with him instead of driving myself—when Celine’s friends descend on me again, like vultures circling roadkill.
Mean girls sometimes just never leave high school.
“So, I hear you and Hudson are…reconnecting?” Sloane says, like we’re best friends.
I eye her with barely concealed irritation.
Delaney lets out a giggle that sounds like it was trained at an all-girls prep school in Manhattan. “I love your outfit. You know those jeans are so last season.”
I look at my Levi’s. The joke’s on them. These are about a decade old.
“It’s cute. The whole return to your roots vibe. So rustic,” Sloane announces as if she’s being magnanimous.
I’m about to turn to leave ‘cause I refuse to dignify their comments with a response when a hand slides around my waist and squeezes.
Maverick tips his hat with his free hand, charm sliding into his smile like a blade sheathed in velvet.
“Ladies,” he drawls loud enough to make the surrounding ranchers perk up with interest.
“Oh, Mav,” Delaney all but purrs. “We were just catching up with Aria.”
“I hear that you mentioned something about me being Celine Delgado-Williams’ man?”
Both women go pale.
I shake my head, my eyes flicking upwards. Damn it! Maverick wants a scene, and I’m so not there for it.
“Which is absurd since Celine is married, yeah?” Maverick continues, all smiles.
He’s doing it loud enough that there are now people who have an ear to our little group.
Sloane clears her throat. “I don’t know where you could’ve heard that.”
Maverick pulls me into him like we’re a thing.
He’s probably doing it for two reasons: one to let everyone know that if I sell Longhorn it’s to him ‘cause we’re fucking, obviously; and second, that he’s with me, a single woman, and he’s not fucking Celine, a married woman.
I don’t like either reason, but I also don’t want to enhance this little scene by pushing him away.
My choices are to stand here and smile, pretend we are together, or be stiff and silent, letting people wonder if Maverick and I are an item.
The former is a bridge too far for me; the latter is acceptable, barely. I go with it.
“So, that’s not what you were just talkin’ to Aria about?” He’s not even trying to be vague. He’s spoiling for some ranch justice by embarrassing these girls.
“We were talking fashion,” Delaney preens. “And…well…there’s no nice way of saying it, is there?” She gives me a look of disdain as if I’m a fashion disaster.
“Yeah?” His tone is easy as molasses, his gaze raking over my body with slow, deliberate heat. There’s no mistaking his intent.
Behind me, a woman whispers, “You see the way he’s lookin’ at her? I think I got knocked up just watchin’ that, Mary Anne.”
I don’t turn around. I’m too mortified to move.
Maverick is having no such problem. He licks his lips and winks at me.
I resist sighing and keep my lips pursed so they can be perceived as a smile—a tight one.
“Well, we do things a little different out here than in Aspen or, say, Rodeo Drive,” Maverick continues as if he’s on their side.
Spoiler alert: he isn’t, which Sloane misses because she laughs. “Obviously. I mean, the fashion alone—”
Maverick holds up a hand to cut her off. “Don’t get me wrong. Y’all do look the part. If the part is ‘drunk at the stock photo shoot for a failed Western fashion startup.’”
Well, shit in a saddlebag! He’s gone and stepped into it, ain’t he?
There’s a beat of silence. Then a bark of laughter from someone nearby. And then another.
Sloane’s face appears pinched. “Excuse me?”
Maverick smirks, all charm. “It’s just that around here, we don’t much care what your boots cost. We care what kind of work you do in them.”
Delaney makes a choking sound, like she’s not sure whether to storm off or cry.
“I suppose that’s a foreign concept for y’all,” he goes on, his voice deceptively polite. “Because if I had to guess, the closest you’ve been to livestock is your Louis Vuitton handbag.” He eyes the bag with considerable displeasure.
There’s more laughter.
Sloane and Delaney can’t believe that Maverick Kincaid, who is slick as a coyote slippin’ through a fence, has gone and unsheathed his claws.
A few ranch hands nearby nod approvingly, one even claps slowly, like it’s a damn comedy set.
Sloane’s face flames red. “You don’t have to be rude, Mav.”
“I’m not,” he counters, voice light. “I’m being honest. You been stirrin’ shit up. But see, we here don’t bend for sequins and lip gloss. We don’t impress easy. Especially not with attitudes wrapped in privilege.”
Delaney steps back like she’s been slapped.
“Come on,” she mutters, grabbing Sloane’s arm. “This place smells like cow shit anyway.”
Maverick tips his hat again. “That’s the smell of hard work. Y’all have a nice rest of your evening, ladies.”
They leave, clicking away on heels that sink into the gravel like they’re trying to walk across a plowed field in stilettos.
There’s a smattering of chuckling and laughter, and then everyone gets back to their business.
I’m equal parts chagrined and…turned on.
No one has ever defended me quite so brutally as Maverick just did. I didn’t need to be defended. I can handle a few mean girls in my sleep with my left hand—but it was nice to have him tell them, God, and everyone in the county that he’s not sleeping with Celine and is maybe sleeping with me.
Fucking hell!
When Celine finds out we’re gonna have a damn rodeo on our hands.
However, this time the man Celine is interested in doesn’t want her but is pretending to want me. I’m petty enough to enjoy that.
I step away from Maverick, his hold on my waist sliding away like a caress.
He glances at me, his grin crooked. “What?”
“You didn’t have to humiliate them,” I admonish.
“They walked into it with both boots.” His eyes are bright with amusement, and then he leans, brushes his lips close to my ear. “They had no right talkin’ to you like that.”
Something warm and unwanted stirs in my chest.
“You look like you’re ready to run,” Maverick adds quietly.
I lick my lips, nervous, unsure.
This man has moves, and I’m out of my depth in more ways than one. It’s not that I’m some ingenue who has no experience with men. But Maverick is more man than I’ve ever had to deal with. It’s overwhelming.
The music shifts—an easy country two-step. He studies me for a beat, then offers his hand. “Dance with me.”
I don’t take it. I’m scared.
“Last time we danced, things got out of hand.”
“That’s true,” he agrees. There’s no apology in his voice. Just that low drawl that coats every word like warm bourbon. “Might be I’m hoping for a repeat.”
And now he’s flirting with me. God, but it’s hard to keep up with him.
I arch a brow, my demeanor laconic. “Is that right?”
I can play the game, too, Mister, ‘cause I can fake it with the best of ‘em.
His lips trail my cheek. His voice drops. “It’s all I’ve thought about, darlin’.”
The breath I take in is shallow. So much for fakin’ it.
Inside me, a red warning light flickers—one word: dangerous.
But…I slip my hand into his all the same.
The makeshift dance floor is just an open patch of trampled earth, lit by string lights someone’s looped over a few posts. Couples move around us—slow, easy steps, boots scuffing dirt, a rhythm you can fall into without thinking.
Maverick pulls me in, one hand strong at my back, the other taking mine.
We sway, slow and steady, like we’ve done this a hundred times before. Like we know each other. Like we trust each other.
Which is funny because I don’t trust anyone.
“You’re looking at me like I’m going to bite you.” He twirls me around and then pulls me in.
“You tellin’ the world we’re fuckin’.” As soon as the words are out, my head conjures up naked Maverick and….
“I’m tellin’ you that I want to.”
I’m so far out of my league with this man, it’s not even funny. In fact, it’s a damn catastrophe.
“I got no idea what to do with that,” I murmur.
“Darlin’, you’re not payin’ attention ‘cause, if you were, you’d see we’ve been walkin’ down this path since I was an asshole to you.”
Speaking of which….
“So…I’m not unattractively masculine?” I can’t help sounding bitter ‘cause I still am.
“Told you I was sorry. Still am, darlin’. I find you attractive, yes, but…it’s more than that. Aria, you are arresting.”
Now that’s a nice thing to hear. But….
“How can I trust someone who said the things you did and now—”
He cuts me off sharply, his regret evident. “I’m sorry. So fuckin’ sorry. For a forty-year-old man, I behaved like a teenager. Please forgive me.”
I can’t fault his sincerity, but….
“You make me nervous,” I admit.
His eyes hold mine. “I’m USDA Inspected and Passed. Safe.”
“You’re Celine’s friend,” I breath.
“I was.”
“And now?”
His hand tightens slightly on my waist. “Now, I’m yours.”
I stop moving.
“Like you’re playin’ musical chairs?” My heart hammers with a sick, hot rhythm. “One sister—check—and now the other?”
“Aria!” The way he says my name—it’s not angry. It’s a gasp, wounded, and stunned.
If he’d snapped, if he’d gotten cold or cruel, I could’ve handled that.
Braced against it. But this hurt in his eyes—because of me—twists my insides and makes me feel like shit.
It makes me feel powerful that I’m able to do this to the great Maverick Kincaid.
It also makes me want to close the space between us and apologize with my hands, my mouth… .
“That was unfair,” I say quietly, shame crawling up my neck for what I said and how I’m aroused by him, for him.
“I know you don’t trust me.” He kisses my forehead. “I’ll change your mind. I’ll earn your trust.”
The music’s still playing.
People are still dancing.
But my world’s gone still, caught in the way he’s looking at me—like he’s seeing all the broken places and wants them anyway.
“I don’t blame you for having doubts,” he continues. “But I mean it when I say that I want to help you.”
That snaps me right out of it.
I pull back. “There it is. It’s always about the damn ranch, always about a deal for you, isn’t it?”
“No deal.”
“Then what?” I demand.
He exhales sharply, eyes flashing. “I want you to win, Aria. Because it matters so much to you. I want you to have what you want.”
My stomach flips, not from nerves but from fear.
If I believe him, and I’m wrong….
I can’t afford that.
I step back completely, clearly.
He doesn’t stop me.
“I’ll take you home,” he says softly, probably using the same tone he does when soothing a skittish Tate.
I nod, feeling bereft.