Chapter 31
If hair and makeup notice how raw my skin is after kissing Maggie for an hour, they don’t mention it. They just buff me out like scratched vinyl and send me on my way.
I’m scrubbed, polished, and decked out in Tripp’s finest: Luccheses shined to hell, black Stetson, dark-wash Wranglers, and a white shirt so starched it could stand on its own. Tripp’s championship belt buckle sits at my waist—a reminder of what’s at stake.
Maggie’s quiet when we walk in. She crosses her arms like she’s cold, but it’s hot as hell under these damn lights. Maybe now that it’s real—now that I’m standing here dressed as Tripp, hours from whatever comes next—it feels bigger. Scarier.
I’m not scared. I can’t wait to start this next chapter.
But I need her to know she’s not in it alone.
“Everything I do tonight is because of you, for you, with you,” I whisper, brushing my lips against the shell of her ear. “There’s no Gabi. No Katie. Only you.”
Then I press a kiss to her temple, turn, and walk onto set.
The place looks the same as it did last week, only now it’s packed for a Friday night. Extras loiter in their western duds, while crew dodge cables and adjust lights. Some poor PA mutters into a headset while trying not to trip over the mess.
Onstage, Graham Barrett’s nephew’s band (the Spur Junkies, I shit you not) is fake warming up for their big silent performance. It’s obvious they’re not thrilled we’re dancing to a different track, but their disaster of a song will be dubbed in soon enough.
I glance over at Maggie biting back a smile. She meets my gaze like it’s our own little inside joke, and I hold on to it as long as I can. Then Dez calls us over, and the moment is gone.
We run through the scene a few times—fine-tuning spacing, syncing our rhythm—until Artie settles behind the monitor. He calls “Action,” and I’m whisking Gabi across the dance floor to “Bluest Eyes in Texas” while a camera glides past us on a dolly track.
I hit my marks. Match her steps. Keep my face soft and my touch firm.
Artie should be proud. Holding Gabi like I’m head over heels while Maggie’s song plays overhead is easily some of my finest acting.
But my body longs for the girl just out of frame.
Her quiet strength. Her patience with me when I didn’t deserve it.
Her fingers—lacing with mine, resting on my shoulder, skimming the hair at my neck.
Quick, quick, slow, slow.
I slip into autopilot, moving instinctively, thinking only of her. The dance hall slips away, and it’s just the two of us—Maggie and me—alone in her barn. Everything I never knew I wanted, right here in my arms.
The last note hangs, then dies out.
Artie calls, “Cut!”
I hold my breath, counting the seconds before “That’s a wrap!” echoes through the hall.
Weeks of tension slip away. My shoulders loosen, the strain in my neck finally gone.
Gabi lowers her arms, and the crew erupts around us: shouts, applause, the scrape of chairs and scuff of boots. Artie appears beside me, clapping me on the back.
I can’t stop my grin as I find Maggie in the crowd, clutching Loretta’s hand like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.
This was supposed to be the end.
But now, it feels like the start.
“I knew you could do it, Shaw,” Gabi says.
“Yeah, but I wasn’t expecting that.” Artie shakes his head. “Three takes. I told Jean not to wait up. Figured I’d be here ’til dawn.”
“It was all Maggie.” My eyes lock on her smile. “Couldn’t have done it without her.”
She stays tucked against the wall like she’s just background, not the reason the scene worked. Not the reason my chest feels like it’s about to split open.
“Come on, Maggie,” Artie calls to her. “Get over here and celebrate. You earned it.”
Someone pops a bottle of champagne. Glasses are passed around.
We stay just long enough to toast the end of filming—then we’re gone, racing to my trailer on pure adrenaline, too keyed up to care who sees.
Stumbling inside, I toss the Stetson somewhere behind me, not even waiting for the door to shut before I’ve got her pinned, my mouth on hers, fingers in her hair, every inch of me tuned to her.
She grabs Tripp’s buckle, unfastening it even as she half-laughs a protest. “Maybe we should wait until we’re home.”
“Can you stop?”
She laughs again, shaking her head. “I’ll try to keep it down.”
The weight of the belt drags at my jeans as she unbuttons them and slips her hand inside, finding me so fucking hard for her.
I groan against her lips, resisting the urge to thrust, sure I’ll come like a goddamn teenager if I do.
“Jesus, Maggie,” I whisper, fighting to get her sweatshirt off. It catches on the arm buried in my briefs. “Was there a blizzard today I didn’t know about?”
“Why don’t you just worry about this,” she says, tapping my chest as she single-handedly wrestles with the buttons on my shirt.
I grab hold and rip it open, sending the buttons flying.
Sorry, wardrobe.
Another laugh spills out of her, and God, how I love that sound.
Pushing off the wall, she guides us toward the sofa until my calves hit the cushion and I fall back, dragging her onto my lap. She straddles me, shrugging off the rest of her sweatshirt before reaching back for her bra.
I suck a breath through my teeth, holding it as those perfect breasts tumble free.
Voices stir outside. Engines rumble in the lot. My phone vibrates on the coffee table. I ignore it all, fixed on this woman—my woman—baring herself to me.
Her hips, still bound by those damn black leggings, rock against me, and I swear to God if I don’t get inside her soon, I’m going to have a problem.
“Hang on,” I whisper, my hand slipping beneath her, lifting her just enough to flip her onto her back.
She gasps at the sudden movement, then giggles as her back hits the cushion and my frantic fingers latch onto her waistband.
“This is clearly an emergency,” I tell her.
“Clearly.”
That’s when my phone starts up again.