Chapter 20
Twenty
STOP TALKING.
WYATT
The ride to the arena gives us our first real privacy since boarding the plane, and I can't stop touching her.
My hand finds hers on the seat between us, my thumb tracing circles across her knuckles.
When she turns to look out the window at the lights of Jackson Hole sliding past, I brush her hair off her shoulder just to feel the silk of it between my fingers.
"You were incredible tonight," I tell her, meaning every word.
Color rises in her cheeks. "Wyatt—"
"I'm serious." My free hand finds her face and lifts her chin. "Marcus Brennan's been to dozens of these events, and I've never seen him enjoy himself like he did when he talked with you. And David Richards? He’s going to make a killing on your recommendations"
"It wasn't anything special—"
"It was." The words come out with a low growl, weighted with emotions I'm not ready to name. "You're everything special."
She goes quiet, tilting her head, trying to figure out if I mean what I say. My other hand finds her knee, fingers trailing up to rest on her thigh.
"Wyatt," she whispers, but doesn't pull away.
I don't push—I can’t. I don’t want to come on too strong. Whatever's happening between us, it's moving fast enough to scare her, but the way she's looking at me now, the way she's letting me touch her gives me hope.
The arena comes into view—lights blazing against the mountain darkness, the sound of cheering crowds and the announcer's voice carrying on the night air.
It's smaller than some of the venues I'm used to, but there's something about it that reminds me why I fell in love with this sport in the first place.
A memory surfaces and brings a smile I can't suppress. "First buckle I ever won was at a junior rodeo in Casper. I was seventeen. Thought I was hot stuff until I got home, and Dad reminded me that one buckle doesn't make a champion."
"Sounds like your father," she says quietly.
"Yeah, well. He wasn't wrong." I help her out of the limo, my hand lingering at her waist.
The med tent sits just outside the arena proper, a white canvas structure that could be transplanted to any rodeo grounds in the country. Doc Mackey’s already waiting, along with his usual collection of medical equipment and paperwork.
"Right on time," he says, looking up from his clipboard. "This shouldn't take long."
"Whatever you need, Doc." I hand Kinsley my jacket, start unbuttoning my shirt, then pause with a grin. "Just don't cut this one off me. It's the last good dress shirt I own."
Doc chuckles. "I'll try to restrain myself."
I finish with the buttons and shrug out of the jacket and shirt, acutely aware of Kinsley's presence behind me. When I turn around, she's definitely looking—her gaze traveling over my chest and shoulders with the kind of attention that makes my blood run hot.
I raise an eyebrow. "Like what you see?"
The blush that spreads across her cheeks is worth every second of the cold mountain air hitting my bare skin. "Just admiring the view, cowboy," she says with mock seriousness.
"Uh-huh." I step closer, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes. "See anything that needs attention?"
"Maybe," she whispers, and the word sends electricity straight through me.
"Alright, Romeo," Doc Mackey’s teasing breaks up the heat of the moment. "Save the flirting for when I'm not here."
As the doc pokes and prods, all I can think about is the look of pure want in Kinsley's eyes. Having her here feels right. More than right.
“All clear," Doc Mackey announces, making a note on his clipboard. "Range of motion's good, swelling's down. You’re good to go."
I pull my shirt back on while watching Kinsley watch me. I’m ready to do something about that look.
"Thanks, Doc." I shake his hand. "Appreciate you staying late for this."
"No problem. Good luck tomorrow." He gives Kinsley a nod. "Nice meeting you, miss. Take care of this one—he's got a habit of thinking he's invincible."
"I'll keep that in mind," she says handing me my jacket, as she drinks me in with a look that makes my pulse kick up.
The ride back to the hotel is quieter than the trip out. Kinsley's sitting closer now, her thigh pressed against mine, her hand resting on my knee. I cover her hand with mine, threading our fingers together.
"How are you feeling about tomorrow?" she asks.
"Good." I bring her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "Better than I hoped, now that you're here."
"You don’t have to say—"
"I mean it." I turn to face her, taking in the way the passing streetlights play across her features. "You make everything better, Kinsley."
She studies my face in the dim light, something uncertain flickering in her blue eyes. "This is moving fast."
"Fast doesn't mean wrong," I say quietly.
I lean closer and kiss her, soft and slow. She melts against me with a little sigh that about does me in. The limo stops at the hotel, and I help her out, my hand settling at the small of her back as we head inside.
In the elevator, I step behind her, my arms coming around her waist, one hand settling flat against her belly.
I feel her quick intake of breath as I lean down to press my lips to the curve of her neck, just below her ear.
She melts back against me and her head tilts to give me better access.
My other hand slides up to rest just below her ribs, and I can feel her heart racing under my palm as I continue to kiss her.
The soft chime of our arrival breaks the spell, and we step apart, both breathing like we’ve been holding our breath this whole time.
I keep my hand on her back as we walk down the hallway, the air between us crackling with tension.
At her door, she turns to face me, key card trembling slightly in her hand, and I can see the want and uncertainty warring in her expression.
"Thank you," she says softly. "For tonight. For bringing me. For—"
I step closer. "Kinsley."
"Yeah?"
"Stop talking."
Her breath hitches, and then I'm kissing her, my hands framing her face with all the gentleness I can manage when every cell in my body is screaming to pull her closer. Her sigh tells me everything I need to know.
Her hands find my chest, fingers curling into my shirt, and I deepen the kiss, letting all the want I've been holding back pour through.
She responds with an urgency that matches my own, her body swaying into mine until we're pressed together in the hallway like we're the only two people in the world.
I back her against her door, my hands sliding into her hair, and she makes another one of those sounds that goes straight through me. Her head tips back and I push my hat back to trail kisses along her jaw, finding a spot on her collarbone that makes her shiver.
“Kinsley,” I breathe against her skin, and she threads her fingers through the hair at the nape of my neck.
I pull back to look at her, taking in her flushed cheeks, her kiss-swollen lips, the way her chest rises and falls like she can't quite catch her breath. She's beautiful like this—undone and real and completely mine in this moment.
"You have no idea what you do to me," I tell her, my fingers brushing along her temple, down to where her pulse thrums against her throat. "You know that?"
She leans into my touch; her lashes fluttering closed for a moment. When she opens them again, I can see everything she's feeling—the want, the uncertainty, the fear of how much this means.
"I should go in," she whispers, but she doesn't move away from me.
"Should," I agree, but I don't step back either. Instead, I lean down and kiss her again, softer this time, worshipful.
She pulls away slowly, her breath unsteady. I step back, giving her space to open her door, but I can't resist reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "Sweet dreams, beautiful."
"You too," she says, and slips inside, leaving me in the hallway tasting her on my lips. I listen for her lock, then walk to my room, already thinking about tomorrow.
The elevator dings behind me just as I reach for my key card.
I glance over my shoulder as three women spill out into the hallway, their laughter too loud for this time of night. Recognition hits a split second before they spot me. I curse under my breath.
"Wyatt!" Brittney squeals and rushes forward, her friends scrambling after her. She stumbles, catches herself on the wall, giggling. “Hold still.” She points at me.
I haven’t moved. I paste on the smile. These are the people who buy tickets, who cheer when my name comes up.
The intimate moment with Kinsley evaporates into the past and I’m stuck here.
I lean against the wall, not wanting to give away which room in mine.
I wouldn’t put it past Brittney to hijack a maid’s key card and sneak in.
"Hey, ladies." I keep my voice easy, friendly.
Brittney leans into my side. Her friends hang back, watching with wide eyes. I don't ask their names.
"I was so excited when I saw your name on the call sheet for tomorrow," she gushes, her words running together slightly. "I was sooo worried when you hurt your shoulder."
Her hand lands on my shoulder, fingers trailing down my bicep in a way that makes my jaw tighten. "You don't have to worry," I say, switching to my fan voice—the one that's warm but keeps distance. "I'm tougher than I look."
I try to ease my arm away, but her fingers trail down to my hand and she grabs on. "Come back to our room and hang out for a while." She tugs, trying to pull me along.
Her friends are holding up their phones, cameras flashing. I keep the smile locked in place.
"Sorry. I need a good night's sleep," I say, gently but firmly extracting my hand from hers. "Doc's orders." I gently push her a few steps down the hall. "Let me make sure you all get to your room safely."
"Awww—" They chorus their disappointment, but they're already moving down the hallway, still snapping pictures as they go. One of them keeps the camera trained on me like she’s videoing this whole thing.
I walk them to their door, and Brittney hands me her key card with a giggle. I wave it in front of the lock and push the door open, then gesture. "Okay, everyone inside."
They giggle, lingering in the doorway for one more photo op before finally stumbling through. I shut the door with a firm click and roll my eyes as I head back down the hallway.
By the time I get back to my door, all I can think about is how different Kinsley's touch felt—and how much I want it back.