Chapter 7 #2
Lilah turned to me, her eyes dancing with barely contained amusement. “I think you just got marching orders.”
“Ruby doesn’t give orders. She manipulates.”
“Is it working?”
I looked at her—at the curve of her mouth, the way her hair fell over one shoulder, the quiet challenge in her expression—and knew I’d already lost.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s working.”
I pushed back from the table and stood, offering her my hand. She took it, her fingers warm in mine, and I led her toward the dance floor just as the fast song ended.
The opening notes of something slow drifted through the speakers.
Of course.
Ruby stood near the edge of the riser, her smile so innocent it was damning.
Lilah looked up at me, her expression shifting into something softer. “She planned this.”
“Every second of it.”
“Smart woman.”
I pulled her close, one hand settling at the small of her back, the other cradling hers against my chest. She fit perfectly, her body warm and solid against mine, and for a second I forgot about the room, the eyes I could feel tracking us, the weight of Harrison’s comment still sitting heavy in my gut.
She moved with me, easy and natural, her head tilting just enough that I could smell her shampoo—something clean and faintly floral that didn’t belong in barns or dirt floor arenas but somehow worked on her.
“You’re tense again,” she murmured.
“I’m fine.” I tightened my hold on her, just slightly, and tried to focus on the music instead of the way people were watching us.
“Everyone’s looking at us,” Lilah whispered.
“It’s because you look so damn good tonight.” I squeezed her hand. “Let them.”
“You don’t seem comfortable with it.”
I wasn’t. But I didn’t know how to explain that without sounding like I was ashamed of her, which I wasn’t. She looked incredible. She was incredible. And the fact that everyone in this room could see that only made it worse.
Because Harrison’s comment kept looping in my head. A little young for you.
She was twenty-six. I was pushing forty-three. Seventeen years was a lot, especially with her in that dress and me standing here unable to name what we were to anyone who asked.
The song shifted, slowing even more, and Lilah’s hand slid up to rest against my shoulder, her thumb brushing the edge of my collar.
“You’re overthinking,” she said.
“Maybe.”
“Definitely.” She tilted her head back, her eyes searching mine. “What’s going on?”
I wanted to tell her. Wanted to explain the ledger, the marker, the mess I was starting to uncover that could blow up the rodeo before it even started. Wanted to admit that I didn’t know how to do this—how to let someone in without it falling apart.
But the words stuck in my throat.
“I’m just tired,” I said instead.
Her expression changed. Something unreadable passed through her eyes before she nodded and leaned back into me.
We finished the dance in silence.
The evening dragged. Sponsors cornered me between songs, asking about stock timelines and insurance paperwork.
Ruby made pointed comments about community involvement and keeping up appearances.
The silent auction closed with a flurry of bids and backslapping congratulations, and I kept Lilah close through all of it, my hand at her back, my presence the only thing I could offer.
But I never introduced her as anything more than a trick rider who was training at the ranch. I never called her my girlfriend or partner. Never gave anyone a reason to ask questions I didn’t have answers for.
By the time we stepped outside into the cold night air, the contrast between the warm, crowded community center and the quiet parking lot made me feel exposed.
Lilah stopped next to my truck, her arms wrapped around herself against the chill and turned to face me.
“Is this all I am to you?” she asked.
The question hit low. “What do you mean?”
“Someone you keep at the edges.” Her voice was steady, not accusing, just honest. “Someone who stays at the ranch and trains and doesn’t get a name when people ask.”
“Lilah—”
“I’m not mad,” she said. “I just need to know.”
I stepped closer, my hands finding her waist, pulling her against me because I didn’t know how else to answer.
“I’m protecting you.”
“From what?”
“From this.” I gestured vaguely toward the community center, toward the mess I couldn’t explain. “From the rodeo. From the feud. From everything that’s—”
“Complicated?” she finished.
“Yeah.”
“I’m not fragile, Dawson.”
“I know.”
“Then stop treating me like I need protecting and start treating me like I’m here.”
Her words cut clean and sharp, and I didn’t have a response that wouldn’t sound like an excuse.
So I kissed her instead.
It was desperate and heated, full of want and restraint tangled together, my hands sliding up her back, her fingers curling into my shirt.
She tasted like wine and frustration, and I poured everything I couldn’t say into the kiss…
the ledger, the marker, the fear that letting her all the way in would mean watching her leave.
When we finally broke apart, both of us breathing hard, she looked up at me with eyes that looked like they’d seen too much.
“Kissing me like that doesn’t fix everything,” she said, her voice soft.
“I’m trying, baby.” And I was. But I’d been set in my ways for so damn long. Letting someone in didn’t come naturally, especially someone who was hellbent on leaving.