“Nope.”
He laughs. “Welcome to the club.”
I came to support Wyatt, to blend into the background, and to provide moral support. Instead, I just claimed a woman I know nothing about, except that her gaze made twelve years of careful control feel like a cage I’m desperate to escape.
I have no idea what to do with her, but I know I’m not giving her back.
Backstage is quiet. Warmer.
Jane is waiting when I push through the curtain, wearing a denim skirt that accentuates her legs, a chambray shirt that has seen better days, and boots that look like they’ve walked a thousand miles of ranch road. She looks like trouble. She looks like home.
She doesn’t seem surprised to see me; just amused.
Her eyes flick to the Stetson perched on my head. “Nice hat.”
I nod at the battered hat on her head. “Yours has stories.”
A smile flickers across her face, but for a moment, her blue eyes cloud with shadows, tightening something in my chest.
“It has.” She shrugs, placing a hand on her hip. “So, congrats?”
“For what?”
“Winning the auction,” she replies. “You outbid three bankers, one rancher, and a guy with a screaming eagle tattoo on his neck.”
“I wasn’t plannin’ to bid at all,” I admit.
Something like hurt flickers across her face, quick and bright, before she masks it. Her chin lifts. “Then why did you?”
“Saw somethin’ I didn't want anyone else to have.”
That gives her pause.
Her eyes narrow, but now they contain heat instead of hurt. “I wasn't aware I was a collectible.”
“You’re not,” I say. “You're rare. That’s different.”
Her blue eyes widen, but she quickly regains her composure. “Damn. Do you always come in that hot?”
“Only when it matters.”
She stares at me for a moment too long, as if trying to determine whether I’m real. I know that feeling.
She studies me and extends her hand. “I'm Jane Cutter.”
I take her hand. It’s small and calloused, a sign she’s no stranger to hard work. Her pulse races against my fingers, matching mine.
“Jackson Briggs,” I reply. “Just call me Tex.”
A smile curves her lips. “Let me guess: born in Texas, and you never let it go?”
“Pretty much.”
Before I can say more, a woman in a charcoal blazer approaches—Gwen, according to her badge.
Gwen smiles at Jane like they’re old friends before turning to me. “Got a minute for some paperwork, you two?”
Jane nods, and we follow Gwen to a nearby table, where she pulls out two crisp copies of the agreement and slides pens across the surface.
