“Name it.”
“If things get weird, if Audrey seems uncomfortable or Reign looks like he wants to murder you for bringing a stranger home, we leave. Immediately. No arguments.”
“You have my word.”
“And you have to tell them I didn’t invite myself. That this was entirely your idea.”
“I will make sure to tell them that it was entirely my idea.”
“And—”
“Tilly.” I squeeze her hand. “Say yes.”
She holds my gaze for a long moment, something shifting in her expression. Then she lets out a breath that sounds like surrender.
“Fine. I guess you can take me to your brother’s house.”
I grab my phone and type out a quick text to my brother to let him know what’s going on. Then the light turns green, and I pull forward, heading toward the ranch road.
She said yes.
My girl is coming home with me.
The possessive satisfaction that floods through me is almost overwhelming. I’ve won championships, held titles, had my hand raised in victory in front of thousands of screaming fans. None of it felt like this.
I glance over at her. She’s looking out the window, watching the town lights fade as we head into the rural outskirts. The dashboard glow illuminates her profile—the soft curve of her cheek, the wild curls escaping from her clip, the delicate line of her throat.
I want to pull this truck over and kiss her. I want to bury my face in her neck and breathe her in. I want to peel that green dress off her body and find out if her skin is as soft as it looks.
But I don’t. Not yet.
Because when I finally have her, it’s not going to be in the front seat of a truck on the side of a country road. It’s going to be somewhere I can take my time. Somewhere I can spread her out and explore every inch of her. Somewhere she can make as much noise as she wants without worrying about anyone hearing.
The thought makes me shift in my seat and my jeans suddenly feel uncomfortably tight.
For years, I’ve listened to the guys in Wyoming talk about the Fit Mountain Curse. The legend that the men up there don’t just fall in love. They get hit by it like a lightning strike. They see the woman they’re meant to be with and that’s it. Game over. No fighting it, no reasoning with it. Just instant recognition.
I always thought it was bullshit. A story the old-timers told to explain why they’d gone soft for their wives. But sitting here now, with a woman I met less than twelve hours ago, I’m starting to wonder if that curse somehow followed me back to Iron Creek.
Because this doesn’t feel like a choice. It feels like a collision.
It’s obsessive. It’s irrational. It’s probably insane.
And I don’t care.
“You’re staring at me,” Tilly says without turning from the window.
“Can you blame me?”
She looks over, her cheeks flushing. “You’re supposed to be watching the road.”
“I’m an excellent multitasker.”
“That’s not comforting when you’re driving.”
I turn my attention back to the road, but I keep her hand on my thigh, my thumb tracing slow circles over her knuckles.
“Can I ask you something?” I say.
