1. Arizona #2
Riley talks the way people breathe, constantly and without permission. Red barely says anything at all, which somehow makes Riley work twice as hard.
“You know,” Riley says, pointing a bottle opener at me, “I’ve spent years trying to improve this man’s personality. Not a single thank-you card.”
Red doesn’t even glance at him. “You’d need a personality of your own first.”
“See?” Riley says. “That’s the nicest thing he’s said to me all month.”
A couple people nearby laugh.
The easy familiarity between them catches my attention more than it should. These people know each other’s stories, their habits, their worst jokes. They’ve built entire lives together without even realizing it.
I’ve spent years making sure nobody knows me that well.
“You’re doing it again.”
I blink and realize Red is looking directly at me. “Doing what?”
“Thinking too hard.”
A grin tugs at Riley’s mouth. “Don’t worry. He thinks anybody who pauses longer than five seconds is having an existential crisis.”
“I wasn’t staring.”
Red’s expression shifts just enough to tell me he doesn’t believe me. “Sure.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks, and I’m not ready to unpack why that thought makes my stomach flip.
A few hours later, the tavern is louder than ever.
The karaoke guy is still butchering country classics with impressive dedication. Empty beer bottles crowd the tables, and half the ranchers in town appear to be debating rodeo standings as if national security depends on it.
Needing to catch my breath, I slip outside and let the door swing shut behind me.
The evening has cooled enough to take the edge off the heat. Music spills through the walls of the tavern while the mountains rise dark against a sky crowded with stars.
It’s nice out here. No questions or curious stares. A chance to breathe.
“You not singing?”
I turn toward the familiar voice.
Red stands near the railing, one shoulder resting against a post.
My pulse decides to embarrass me. “Not tonight. I’ll wait until I’m scheduled.”
“You write your own songs?”
I nod. “Every one.”
I catch him watching me.
Most men look at me because of the wily copper hair, the guitar, or the novelty of a woman rolling into town alone. Red looks at me like he’s trying to figure me out, and I can’t decide whether that annoys me or makes me want him to keep doing it.
“You staying in town long?” he asks.
I lean back against the railing and shake my head. “Probably not. I show up somewhere, play a few gigs, write a couple songs, then head off to the next place before people get sick of me.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “That’s one way to tell yourself the story.”
I laugh. “You always this cheerful?”
“No.”
“Good. I’d hate to think I was getting the polished version.”
That earns another hint of amusement, and I’m absurdly pleased by it.
He studies me for another beat before glancing toward the dark stretch of road running through town. “Leaving’s probably smart.”
I narrow my eyes. “Now you’ve got to explain that.”
“Do I?
“Yeah. That’s how conversations work.”
His gaze returns to mine. “Places like this get under your skin.”
The answer comes so easily that I know he’s speaking from experience. “Sounds personal.”
“It is.”
His eyes warm with amusement, and the look does strange things to my pulse.
The conversation should feel easy. It should feel harmless. Instead, every glance seems to stretch a little longer than it should.
Every smile lands a little harder.
I become painfully aware of how close we’re standing, of the scent of whiskey and leather clinging to him, of the way his attention never seems to wander.
Neither of us says anything for several heartbeats.
We just stand there looking at each other while the sounds of the tavern drift through the walls behind us.
The attraction that’s been simmering since I walked up to the bar finally stops pretending to be polite.
I take a small step forward.
His eyes drop briefly to my mouth, and that tiny movement is all the encouragement I need.
Maybe it’s reckless. I’m sure it’s a terrible idea, but that’s never stopped me before.
I reach for the front of his shirt just as his hand slides into my hair.
Then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss hits hard enough to steal every coherent thought from my head.
It’s all heat and hunger and months’ worth of restraint packed into a man I’ve only known for a few hours. I kiss him back, gripping his shirt tighter as he pulls me closer, and suddenly Colter Creek, the music, and every plan I made before driving into town fade into the background.
The only thing that matters is the cowboy kissing me like he’s wanted to do it since the second we met.
His hand stays firm at the back of my neck, his fingers strong and careful all at once, like he’s testing whether I’ll pull away. I don’t.
If anything, I move closer, giving ground until the railing digs into my spine and there’s nowhere left to go except straight into him.
His other hand settles on my hip, possessive enough to send heat racing beneath my skin, even through my jeans. He tastes like whiskey and impatience, a craving I never expected and can’t seem to satisfy.
“Fuck,” he mutters against my mouth. “I want you. I want to fuck you right here.”
The bluntness of it steals the breath from my lungs. There’s nothing cautious about the way he wants me.
Need barrels through every sensible thought I have left.
Somehow my hands end up beneath his shirt. One kiss turns into another, and then I’m lost in hard muscle and the ridges of his body, grabbing at him with more desperation than dignity while he pins me against the railing at the edge of the porch.
His stubble drags across my jaw, my cheek, then down my throat. The scrape sends a shiver through me.
I want more. I’ll take more if he’s reckless enough to give it.
Turns out he is.
Turns out I am, too.
His fingers sink deeper into my hair as he tips my head back and finds my throat with his mouth. He kisses and marks me with the focus of a man who hasn’t eaten in days, like he’d happily haul me back to his cave and devour me where nobody could interrupt.
I let him.
More than that, I press into his touch and grind against him as though every part of me was built specifically to make terrible decisions with this particular cowboy.
At last he breaks away enough to look at me. His eyes are dark and untamed beneath the neon spilling across the porch. “My truck’s right there.”
I waggle my brows. “Sounds good to me.”
He makes an effort to act casual, but we’re well beyond casual. We’ve blown past caution and are racing toward spectacularly bad judgment, and I can’t find a single reason to care.
He catches my hand and pulls me after him.
When he yanks open the passenger door, it smacks against the side of the next truck with a bang. Before I can reconsider my taste in men, locations, or life choices in general, he’s ushering me inside.
The cab smells like hay, tobacco, and him. Sweat, leather, maybe cologne. The kind of scent a man wears when he never expects anyone to get close enough to notice.
He’s close enough that there’s no space left between us, and when he kisses me again, he drags me halfway onto his lap as though that’s where I belong. His hands disappear beneath my shirt, sweeping over my ribs and waist with a confidence that makes my pulse kick harder.
There’s nothing tender about the kiss.
It’s hungry and demanding, and after spending so much of my life pretending sweet was enough, I discover I have very little patience left for it.