Wyatt winces at my question, but he’s not easily deterred. “I was asking when the clinic expects you back.”
“Oh. They don’t. I sort of quit without notice before coming here.”
“Huh. Well, I’m sure you won’t have a hard time finding something else when you’re ready.”
I really don’t want to talk about work. If I do, I’ll start thinking about the job offer, about all the reasons I should take it—and the one reason I don’t want to. And I am not going there tonight.
“So,” I say quickly, “how many head of cattle did you say you have on your ranch?”
Wyatt has no issue talking about his ranch until the music changes to something faster paced. And then we’re too busy keeping up with the steps to talk. I smile and keep dancing. I don’t want Tish and her minions to think her words affected me.
He spins me and I stumble, the alcohol making me a little wobbly on my feet. He laughs, and I do too, but it feels hollow. If it were Tripp dancing with me right now, I might actually be having fun instead of just pretending.
It’s nothing against Wyatt. He’s nice. A gentleman. But tonight, the only man’s hands I want are Tripp’s.
I’m about to excuse myself, so I can get some air when a familiar voice cuts through the sound of the music. “Can I cut in?”
Wyatt glances at me. Whatever look is on my face must give away my complete and utter relief because he steps aside without hesitation.
“Sure,” Wyatt says.
“Thanks for the dance, Wyatt,” I say, offering a soft smile.
He tips his hat in response, a resigned expression on his face.
I glance back at Tripp. His gaze is fixed on me. Eyes dark. Nostrils flaring. Jaw ticking.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen whatever this version of Tripp is. But God help me, I want him like this. Dark and growly and possessive.
His hand settles on my hip, and he pulls me tight against him—much closer than Wyatt was holding me. His body moves, and I instinctively follow, finally feeling steady and grounded in a way I haven’t felt all night.
You've Got the Hat
Quinn
Tripp’s strangely quiet, and I can’t shake the feeling that he’s upset about something. Just as I’m about to ask, his eyes find Wyatt in the crowd.
“I didn’t like that,“ he mumbles.
“Didn’t like what?”
“Seeing you with him.”
I can’t remember a single time Tripp has seemed anything other than cocky and self-assured—especially with women. He can’t possibly be worried about me liking Wyatt.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You don’t get jealous.”
“Apparently when it comes to you, I do," he mutters.
His words shouldn’t make me feel special. They don’t mean anything. Maybe it’s possessiveness because of what we’re doingor how long we’ve known each other. Or maybe it’s just that he’s my brother’s best friend and still thinks he has to keep every other boy at bay.
I scan his face, eyes still tight, lips pulled down into a frown. It takes everything in me not to kiss that frown off his mouth. Instead, I do the next best thing and give him a little truth of my own.
“Don’t worry, Casanova. I was thinking about you the whole time he was dancing with me.”
His frown transforms into a bright smile, dimples forming divots in his cheeks. “You were?”
God help me. I’m a puddle at this man’s feet when he smiles at me like that. His eyes crinkling at the corners. Those goddamn dimples. And that fire that lurks behind his smile.
