Waylon’s gaze.
It’s like heat at the back of my neck, pressure that refuses to let up. I shift in my chair, angle my body away from where I know he’s sitting, talking to Caison and Bryce, but it doesn’t help. My skin is aware of him in a way I don’t like.
“… and then I told him if he keeps letting that hoof go that long—”
“I’m sorry,” I interrupt. “What?”
Dixon blinks, then chuckles softly. “I told him she could end up lame if he doesn’t have her hooves taken care of on a regular basis. It’s like brushing our teeth; if you neglect them, you’ll lose them.”
“Right. Yes. Absolutely.” I wince. “Sorry, music’s loud.”
He smiles, unbothered. “Want another drink? You’re out.”
I glance at my empty glass.When did that happen?“Actually, I’ll grab it. You stay.”
He starts to rise anyway, but I press a hand to his shoulder.
“I’ve got it.”
His eyes flicker with something. And I know he’s fighting his manners.
“Okay,” he says, settling back into his seat.
I push my chair out and head for the bar, weaving through bodies, breathing easier the farther I get from the table. Theo catches my eye almost immediately, and I lift a hand in greeting. He nods, already reaching for a glass.
I wait patiently, tapping my fingers lightly against the bar top.
That’s when I feel it.
Heat presses against my back—solid, unmoving. I step forward a half step, but the warmth follows, crowding my space.
I don’t even think.
I bring my elbow back, sharp and quick, aiming for ribs.
Instead, my joint meets solid muscle.
I suck in a breath and spin around, ready to rip someone a new one.
And there he is.
Waylon.
Up close, he’s even more of a distraction than he was from across the room. White button-up shirt stretched across a broad chest, the top button undone, revealing his collarbone. A denim jacket thrown on casually. Dark Wranglers hugging his hips in a way that should be illegal. Scuffed boots. A dark brown leather belt with a shiny silver buckle that catches the bar light. And the hat …
God help me.
He’s close. So close. Closer than I’ve been to him in a long time. And maybe it’s the tequila, but I let myself really look at him. He’s taller than I remember. Bigger. Filled out in a way that makes me realize he was just a boy when he left town and now he’s all man.
“Easy there, Stormy,” he drawls, slow grin spreading across his stupidly handsome face.
There it is—the hint of his dimples under a few days’ worth of stubble, shadowing his square jawline. His sharp blue eyes sparkle with amusement, like he’s enjoying this a little too much.
I glare at him. Hard.
“Are you stalking me?” I finally ask.
He chuckles. “Nope. Just thirsty.”
