Grant’s lips twitch like he’s fighting a grin and is also very satisfied with my answer. I don’t let him off easy.
“But the crier?” I continue, making a face. “What do I do with that? Stroke his hair and whisper, ‘You did so good, buddy’? Hand him a Capri-Sun and an emotional support blanket? I’m not built for that kind of post-coital counselling!”
That grin finally breaks through. “So noted,” he murmurs, eyes gleaming. “No tears. Lots of shutting up. Got it.”
I narrow my eyes. “This isn’t a personal checklist, cowboy.”
“Didn’t say it was. Just... takin’ notes. For science.” He smirks.
“Alright” feeling almost desperate to draw another laugh out of him for reasons I’m not willing to analyze further, “so…would you rather fall in love with someone who’s terrible in bed, or someone amazing in bed, who’s terrible at literally everything else?
Grant shrugs, taking off his cowboy hat and putting it on the bar, then runs a hand through that just-rolled-outta-bed hair.
Oh sweethell.
That hair—God, that hair—why does it have to beso... tug-able? Like he just rolled out of bed after wrecking a few dreams and didn’t even bother checking a mirror, becausewhy would he need to?He was very much first in line when God handed out looks that day and gravity is clearly obsessed with him.
The way his fingers rake through it, all slow and careless, like he doesn’t even know what kind of power he’s wielding? It should be illegal. Or at the very least, taxed.
And now all I can think about is how it would feel to do that myself—slipping my hands into those thick strands, gripping them while he's saying something that has no business being that deep and that hot. My fingers curled in his hair while he leans in and—
Nope. Abort mission.
This isnota safe thought zone.
He continues, completely oblivious to my internal turmoil, his voice sounding low and deep. “Look, I can teach someone how to saddle up proper—but I ain’t spendin’ my life babysittin’ a woman who thinks toaster strudel is a personality trait.” He shrugs “so give me the girl who can’t ride but tries like hell. That kinda heart? That’s worth the long game.”
Focus, Mia.Words. He’s saying words. Something about heart and long games and oh no, now he’s smiling like that again and great—my ovaries just signed a lease.
“How many times have you practiced that ‘I’m not affected by cowboys’ face in the mirror?” he asks, his voice low and amused, like he already knows the answer.
I freeze. Damn it. Did I let something slip? Did Imoan? Did I just like—emotelike some wide-eyed rodeo groupie?
He studies me a beat longer, something unreadable flickering behind those amber eyes. “Because right now, Princess, your face is sayinga whole lot.”
My cheeks ignite as I clear my throat. “Too many,” I mutter, swallowing the lump of pride in my throat. “Which is wild really, considering it clearly doesn’t work. I strutted into town thinking I was emotionally bulletproof—and now I flinch every time a cowboy tips his hat like he’s about to wreck my five-year plan. So yeah, the face? Broken. Defective. Full-on emotional product recall.”
He chuckles, low and husky, and then— slow and intentional—his eyes drop to my lips.
And, because I’m apparently a walking cautionary tale with zero self-preservation, mine drops to his and my tongue drags across my bottom lip like it’s acting on instinct, not sanity.
It’s not the drink. It’s not the music. It’s not even thedamnhat.
It’s him. Just him. I’m so completely screwed.
And I’m so not ready for what that means. I break away first, dropping my gaze to my drink and in the same instance my brain decides now’s the perfect time for a vivid, absolutely filthy fantasy to crash into my mental inbox like an unsolicited dick pic from the universe.
The image—vivid and completely uninvited—slams into my brain like a sucker punch: Grant’s hands gripping my hips, spinning me into the bar as his mouth crashes onto mine. The weight of him pressing me against the wood. The rough drag of his palm up my thigh. My dress riding higher. His voice, low and possessive, whispering filth against my neck.
I blink, struggling to breathe. My hands tighten around my glass. I shift, trying to ease the ache pooling between my legs, but it’s no use.
I shouldn’t be this turned on. Not by a guy who makes my blood boil one minute and my core clench the next. Not in the middle of a damn bar.
And yet, here I am.
When I look up again, his chair is empty.
I blink, confused. Did I imagine him? But no—his drink sits right there, half-finished.
