This isn't just physical anymore. That would be simple. Manageable. I've dealt with attraction before. But this—this tightness in my chest when she talks about her mother, the way my stomach knots when I think about her leaving—this is dangerous territory.
She wants me. I see it—hell, I feel it like a damn lightning storm under my skin. In the way her eyes linger just a little too long, when she thinks I’m not watching. I’m always watchingher. The way her breath hitches when my fingers skim over her skin. She wants me, and not just in the fleeting, tipsy kind of way people want each other when the night’s long and full of stars.
It’s deeper.
It’s the kind of wanting that scares the hell out of me.
Because I want her too.
More than I should.
More than makes any sense.
And every time I think about what would happen if I leaned in—if I let myself fall—I feel this weight settle on my chest.
Because, when all is said and done, she’s leaving. She’s not staying in Portree; I drum into my head. She’s got this whole world ahead of her—big city bylines, oceans to swim, storiesto write. She’s made of movement, of ambition, of the kind of freedom I’ve only ever tasted in daydreams.
And me? I’m just… here.
Rodeo and the ranch is in my blood. This land, this family, this damn small town with its nosy residents and dusty roads—it’s all I’ve ever known.
I can’t give her Paris or Tokyo or whatever damn place she’s meant to conquer next. I can’t give her a story that ends with travel stamps and headlines.
I’d only hold her back.
Tie her down.
And that’s the last thing I want—to be the reason she clips her own wings.
So instead I watched her on a call with her coach, glancing at me every now and then. With this look in her eyes like maybe she already knew what I’m thinking. Like she could feel the wall I’m trying to build between us, even if I’m too slow laying the bricks.
She deserves more than a man with calloused hands and a fucking fear of rivers.
She deserves more than this life rooted in dirt and grief.
And God help me, I want to give her more—but I don’t know how.
She’s got an entire world waiting for her. She’sMia Bonney. The kind of woman who could rebuild herself out of rubble and call it art. Who swims through her own grief like it’s something she can outpace if she just keeps moving.
I run a hand through my hair and exhale slow, like maybe I can push the ache down far enough so that it won’t show in my face.
I sit up, grabbing my laptop from the nightstand. Work. I need to focus on work. The upcoming rodeo schedule should be finalized by now, and Connor's been hounding me about my availability for PR firm events.
Three emails in, and I'm staring at Mia's name in a text document where I should be typing venue dates.
Dammit, if I can’t get this girl out of my head.
I slam the laptop shut and lay back on the bed. Outside my window, the Texas sky is turning deep purple, stars beginning to appear like tiny pinpricks in dark fabric. The house is quiet except for the occasional creak of the old wooden frame settling.
And then I hear the shower running in the bathroom.
My mind instantly conjures Mia standing under the spray, water cascading down her athletic body, down those perfect full breasts of hers, droplets clinging to her nipples before trailing down her flat stomach to where I—
“Stop it,” I growl, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes.
But it's no use. My cock is already hard, straining against my jeans in a painful reminder of our interrupted moment on the couch. When her coach called, Mia had practically sprinted off the couch with her injured calf and all to the guest room, leaving me kneeling on the floor with an aching erection and a tube of muscle ointment in my hand.
I glance at the Deep Heat sitting on my nightstand where I tossed it earlier. It's been over an hour, and I haven't heard apeep from Mia since that call. Whatever her coach said must have been important.
