"Peak engagement hours!"
He's laughing now, shaking his head. "You're ridiculous."
"You love it."
"I do." He squeezes my hand. "I really do."
*****
By the time we pull into Jake's driveway, it’s late. The house is dark, the porch light casting a warm glow across the front steps. Everything is quiet and still and perfect.
Jake cuts the engine.
We look at each other.
"So," I say.
"So."
"We're here."
"We are."
There's a beat of silence. Then Jake is out of the truck, around to my side, yanking open my door. Before I can even process what's happening, he's scooping me up and throwing me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing.
"Jake!" I shriek, laughing. "What are you—put me down!"
"Nope." He's already striding toward the house, his arm locked firmly across the backs of my thighs. "I've been thinking about this for hours. Longer. Five days, actually."
"Thinking about manhandling me?"
"Among other things."
He fumbles with the door, gets it open, kicks it shut behind us. The house is dark but he navigates it easily, carrying me through the living room and down the hallway and into his bedroom.
Then he tosses me onto the bed.
I bounce once, laughing, breathless. He's standing over me, chest heaving, eyes dark with want.
"Hi," I say.
"Hi."
"That was very caveman of you."
"I have my moments."
I sit up, suddenly aware of everything—the smell of the rodeo still clinging to my clothes, the dried sweat at my temples, the flour I never quite managed to wash out of my hair.
"I need a shower," I say. "I've been working a food truck all day. I'm disgusting."
Jake's expression shifts into something heated. "Okay."
"Okay?"
He holds out his hand. "Let's go."
We don't make it to the bathroom with our clothes intact.
