2. Josephine
CHAPTER TWO
Josephine
I should leave.
That thought has been circling my head for the last half an hour. Maybe longer. I don’t quite know when Clay sat down now, but since then anyway.
Long enough for my drink to go warm in my hand. Long enough for my mother’s warning voice in my head, don’t ever get tangled up with rodeo boys, to start sounding annoyingly reasonable.
And long enough for me to do absolutely nothing about it.
Because he’s still here. Still leaning beside me at the bar like he has nowhere else to be. Like the rest of the room doesn’t exist and I’m the only thing worth paying attention to.
It’s distracting.
Dangerously so.
“You’re thinking too hard again,” Clay says, low enough that it barely cuts through the hum of the bar.
I don’t look at him right away. If I do, I’ll get pulled back into whatever this is, and I need a second to get my footing.
“I’m not,” I lie.
He huffs out a quiet laugh beside me. “You are.”
I finally turn my head.
Mistake.
He’s closer than I expect. Close enough that I can see the tiny scar at the edge of his eyebrow, the way his dark hair falls just slightly out of place like it refuses to be tamed, the sharp line of his jaw shadowed by the kind of stubble that looks intentional but probably isn’t.
And his eyes…
They are… wow. So blue I could easily get lost in them. Bright. Intense. The kind that don’t just look at you, but through you. Like he’s already figured me out.
I straighten slightly on instinct, crossing one leg over the other like that’ll somehow give me back control of the situation. “You don’t know me well enough to make that call.”
“Don’t I?” he murmurs.
The way he says it makes my stomach dip.
Annoying.
I take a slow sip of my drink, buying time. “No.”
“You like control.”
I blink. “That’s a bold assumption.”
He shrugs. “You hold your glass like you’re afraid of spilling it.” His gaze flicks down briefly before coming back up. “You keep looking at the door like you’re reminding yourself you can leave whenever you want.”
Heat creeps up the back of my neck.
I hate that he noticed that.
“I just got here,” I say.
“You’ve been ready to go since I sat down.”
I turn fully toward him now, narrowing my eyes. “And yet I’m still here.”
That earns me a slow smile. “There it is. The part of you that’s curious.”
My pulse stutters.
It’s ridiculous.
I’ve known him… what? An hour? Maybe less. And somehow, he’s already inside my head like he belongs there.
I should shut this down, finish my drink, thank him for the conversation, and go home.
Instead, I hear myself ask, “And what does that say about me?”
“That you don’t do this often.”
I swallow, because he’s right, and the worst part is… I don’t know if I’ve done anything to make that obvious, or if he’s just that good at reading people.
“Maybe I just don’t usually meet people worth staying for,” I counter, keeping my tone even.
His eyes flicker, joy passing through them. “That so?”
“Mm hm.”
“And I made the cut?”
I tilt my head slightly, letting my gaze drag over him in a way that’s a little more intentional this time.
He’s unfair.
That’s the only word for it.
Tall in a way that makes you feel it even when he’s sitting. Broad shoulders under a worn shirt that stretches just enough to hint at muscle without trying too hard. Hands that look rough. Calloused, capable, like they’ve spent more time working than sitting still.
And that face…
Sharp. Confident. A little dangerous. The kind of man you know better than to trust, but the kind you want anyway.
My stomach tightens. “You’re interesting.”
His smile deepens. “Careful. That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Awareness seeps through me. I feel it in the way my fingers tighten slightly around my glass. In the way I’m suddenly conscious of how close he is, of the heat coming off him, of the way his knee brushes mine under the bar like it’s nothing.
“You’re not staying in town,” I say, needing to ground this in reality.
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Good.”
That surprises him. I can tell by the slight lift of his brows. “Good?”
I nod. “I’m not interested in anything complicated.”
“Yeah,” he says with sparkling eyes. “Me neither.”
I set my glass down, suddenly done with it. Done pretending I’m still debating this.
His gaze tracks the movement. “You leaving?”
I meet his eyes.
My heart's beating too fast.
This is reckless, so unlike me, and exactly the kind of thing I’ve spent years avoiding.
“Yeah,” I say.
I slide off the stool.
He stands immediately, like it’s instinct, like there was never a question of whether he’d follow.
“Alright,” he says, watching me carefully. “You want me to walk you out, or…?”
I hesitate.
One last chance to walk away, to choose the safe option, the smart one.
Instead, I hear myself say, “You can come with me.”
His mouth curves. “Oh, for sure. I can do that.”
The night breeze hits my skin the second we step outside, cool and grounding in a way I didn’t realize I needed.
It doesn’t help when he’s right behind me, close enough that I can feel it without even looking.
Buckhorn at night is quiet. The noise fades quickly once we’re off Main Street, replaced with the distant hum of trucks on the highway and the soft crunch of gravel under our boots.
I should say something. Normal words that make this feel less like I just flipped a switch I can’t turn back off.
But I don’t.
Because every time I open my mouth, I’m too aware of him, of the way his presence fills the space beside me, of the way my body feels different. Awake. Alert. Like every nerve is tuned too tight.
“You always this quiet?” he asks after a minute, echoing his earlier question.
I glance over at him. “You already asked me that.”
“Yeah,” he says easily. “Didn’t get a real answer.”
I exhale softly. “Maybe I don’t feel the need to fill the silence.”
His gaze shifts to me, thoughtful now. “Or maybe you’re thinking too much again.”
“Or maybe,” I counter, “I’m deciding if I should let you keep walking with me.”
That earns me a low chuckle. “You invited me, remember?”
“I can change my mind.”
“You won’t.”
I smirk. “Confident.”
“Observant,” he corrects.
I narrow my eyes slightly. “You don’t know me.”
“Not yet.”
I turn my attention back to the road ahead, but it’s pointless. He’s there in my head now too, just like he was at the bar.
This is exactly what I was trying to avoid.
My cottage comes into view a minute later, tucked just off the road. It's nothing fancy, but it's mine.
I slow as we reach the steps.
This is the moment.
The line.
Once we cross it, there’s no pretending this is just flirting at a bar anymore.
I slip my key into the lock but don’t turn it. Instead, I look over to find him watching me already.
The porch light catches his eyes and the sharp edge of his jaw. He looks damn good standing there, like he was made for moments exactly like this, and he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
“Last chance,” I say quietly.
“For what?” he asks.
“For me to tell you to go home.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “You gonna?”
I should.
I know I should.
“No,” I admit.
And then he’s kissing me.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, pulling me closer, and I go easily, like my body already decided this before my mind caught up. I press closer, rising slightly onto my toes without thinking, chasing the feeling instead of pulling back from it. The world narrows down to this. To him.
It’s overwhelming.
I turn just enough to reach behind me, turning the key and fumbling for the door handle without breaking the kiss. Then the door swings open, and we stumble inside together, still tangled up in each other.
The door shuts behind us with a soft click.
We stagger inside, a hungry scramble of hands and mouths. I taste cedar, cotton, and the faint mineral tang of his skin. There’s a pull, magnetic and feral, that I didn’t know I was capable of feeling this fast.
There’s an edge to it too, a sharpness, because everything comes blistering to the surface at once: want, fear, the knowledge that we’re strangers really, but that only makes it better.
More reckless.
He pins me briefly, breath ragged, against the door, the wood thumping dully behind my shoulder blades.
I gasp, more in surprise than anything else.
It’s almost funny, how quickly I become the kind of person who lets a man crowd her up against her own front door. But I don’t stop him. Not when his mouth finds the angle beneath my jaw, or when his hands land on my hips and squeeze me tight.
His hands drag up my spine, pushing the fabric of my shirt higher, and when he finally gets it off me, I don’t care where it lands. His palms are hot against my bare skin; the feel of them makes me shudder.
I take the lead, shove him back enough to get my own hands under his shirt, tug at the hem. He grins into my mouth and lets me have my way. His chest is hard beneath my fingers, coarse with hair, and I want more. I want all of it.
“Fucking hell,” I moan desperately. “Clay.”
He groans into my mouth, then lifts me, just enough that I’m forced to wrap my legs around his hips as he carries us deeper into the cottage.
The old floor creaks beneath us, the only sound besides the wild thump of my heart and the short, hungry gasps I can’t quite seem to swallow down.
One broad hand fumbles behind him for the first doorknob to my bedroom, finds it, and shoulders through. My back hits the wall, again, and I laugh, breathless, startled by how much this roughness is what I want.
I want to be wanted.
He reads it.
His hands slide from my hips to my ass, and his lips graze my ear. A hoarse sound, almost a growl, escapes him and vibrates against my skin.
I taste him on my tongue when I draw his lower lip between my teeth. The sound he makes goes straight through me. I can’t help grinding against him, craving that friction, anything to quiet the ache that’s already started pooling low in my belly.