“Not happening.”
I roll my eyes, finally padding across the room. The air conditioning is cranked, but it’s still hot in here. Sweltering, truly. I can’t tell if that’s real or if it’s only in my head.
“What’s your plan for the night, then? There’s no TV in here. Do you haveFarmvilleon your phone, cowboy? Have you collected your daily prize?”
My first glance at the tip of his pink tongue as it glides across his bottom lip has my toes curling into the carpet. It wasn’t a sexual move. He’s annoyed with me, and instead of backing off like I should, I keep pushing.
“Or are you going to sit and watch me sleep? I can’t promise you a show worth watching. All my toys are in my trailer.”
There’s a crack in his bravado. It’s slight, nothing more than a flash of his eyes and a flattening of his already straight lips. My heart rate picks up, beating in time with my hurried steps. My thigh hits the mattress, and I grow still, hesitating to climb onto it.
He palms his chin, squeezing it before dropping his hand into his lap. “If you want me to sleep in the bed with you, hellcat . . . then ask.”
“Your answer wouldn’t be no?”
“Should it be?”
“Stop answering my questions with another question.”
He straightens and presses his back into the chair before rising. His jeans are worn in the thigh, and he’s still wearing his boots. The chair legs creak beneath the shifting of his weight before it’s gone entirely. I swallow as discreetly as possible and lower a hand to the blanket. Slowly, I peel it back.
“Ash would have my hide if I got in that bed with you,” he mutters, staring at where my hand’s pinching the cheap comforter.
“Are you planning on telling him? I’m not.”
“You never told him about the letters.” It’s not a question.
Warning bells ring. I ignore them. “He wouldn’t have understood. And I didn’t want him to be an ass when you got out of prison. He’s always been easy to rile up when it comes to your friendship.”
“You didn’t do it for me, Tilly. I’m not playing this game with you tonight.”
Yet, despite those words, he starts unbuttoning his shirt. Long, thick fingers move down his chest, plucking the buttons free. I tuck my tongue behind my teeth, remembering the feelof his touch when he gripped my shoulders back at the ranch. It was an unexpected show of support that I’ve read too far into.
He’s inked the backs of his hands with more trees and branches. Evergreens grow between each knuckle, some black, some deep green. I want to tell him to sit beside me so I can count how many branches hang from each one, just so I have an excuse to touch him.
By the time he reaches the last three buttons, I’m pressing my leg harder against the bed for balance. Inch by inch, more of his chest is exposed, until finally, the shirt hangs open, offering an unrestricted view. My swallow is louder now.
Endless muscle, dark hair. I bring my legs together as discreetly as possible.
He pins me beneath his eyes, hearing the noise I made and watching every shift of my body. It would be easier to fall to my knees in front of him than try to explain what I’m thinking and feeling. I doubt he’d want to hear it anyway. We’d both prefer option one.
“Get in bed, Tilly.”
“You first,” I counter weakly, far too breathless.
With a pull of his shoulders, his shirt glides down his arms. He catches the back of it in his fist and drapes it over the back of the chair. I’m unable to move. The mass amounts of designs on his torso are . . . hard to comprehend. It’s like staring at a painting on a wall at an art gallery. Or more like a handful of them all twisted into one. Different themes, vibes, colour schemes. There’s no rhyme or reason to the images and words inked onto his skin.
His fingers fiddle with his belt buckle. It clacks as he grips it and tugs, but with his eyes still on me, it doesn’t move the way he wants it to. His fingers flex, and I whip my gaze up once I see the tremble in them.
With his pupils expanding far beyond the size they were a moment ago, he grinds his jaw and glares at me. Like it’s my fault he can’t unbuckle his belt for the first time in his entire goddamn life.
Wordlessly, I abandon the bed and push myself to go to him. The tension in his face multiplies as I close the distance between us, but he doesn’t retreat. Even when I have to tip my head back slightly to avoid breaking our stare-off, he remains in place.
“This is a first,” I murmur, the words softer than I intended.
“What is?”
“Rowe Carrigan is struggling to unbuckle his belt. What would they say about you at the rodeo?”
