Georgia lets out a horrified “Oh, fuck!”
The whole field goes silent.
I freeze. Wipe a slow hand down my face. Feel the tension stretch, like the entire world’s holding its breath.
Then I bend down, grab a fistful of mud, and nail Wilder square in his too-pretty face.
“Always told you bare jaws are for the weak,” I mutter.
He falls back, hitting the ground with a splash. His eyes are wide, but his grin is wider. “And I told you, it would be a crime to cover this mug with an overgrown gerbil hide like you.”
I catch his fingers digging into the mud at his sides a split second before I hurl myself up and away.
A second later, he lets out a fucking battle cry that pierces my ears.“Mud fight!”
“Oh, motherfucker,” I say, grinning from ear to ear. “It’s on.”
Chapter Twenty One
But Mudding is For Making Out
Screams erupt.
Wiki whoops and tackles Clem into a puddle. Hazy’s swearing up a storm, boots stomping through the grass as she tries to dodge flying dirt. Colby is belly-laughing from the safety of her saddle.
And Georgia?
She’s trying to sneak off. Turning Pudding in a wide arc, aiming for the outer pasture like we won’t notice.
“Not so fast, freckles!” I shout, mounting in record time and slapping the reins.
She lets out a loud giggle that carries on a breeze and finds its way into my veins.
Dusty bolts after her, hooves pounding through the slop, kicking up water and debris as I gain ground. She glances over her shoulder, eyes wide with mock horror, then lets out a delighted screech as she kicks Pudding into a gallop. The sound of everyone drifts into the distance as we race deeper into the grass-filled pasture and away from the mud.
I catch up just as she veers right to avoid a massive puddle, and I cut her off, swinging Dusty tight and splashing her entire left side with a wave of cold, fresh rainwater.
She gasps. “You’re dead!”
“And you look good wet.”
“Do not tempt me to show you what wet is, Archer!”
God help me—I wish you would, baby.
My jaw clenches from the force of choking back my words.
“I thought you were supposed to be a cowboy,” she taunts, letting Pudding prance back and forth in place. “Isn’t that why you wear those boots?”
“No, darlin’,” I drawl, edging closer, and backing her against a fence. “The boots are for work. My hat?” My chin dips toward the hat on her head. “That’s for cowboyin’.”
Georgia giggles, biting her lip. “Don’t you meanmyhat?”
I huff, slowly inching Dusty forward. Pudding mirrors my lead, tail swishing back and forth. She’s open on either side if she wants to run, but Georgia's oblivious to what’s happening.
“You do know what they say about cowboy hats, right?”
Her brows draw tight and she shakes her head once.
