“Try it,” he says, his voice lower now, rough around the edges.
I fumble through the motions, laugh nervously when the rope lands a good three feet short of the post. “Wow. So this is going well.”
“You’re stiff,” he says, stepping behind me. “Relax your shoulders. Here—”
His hands come to rest lightly on my waist, guiding me, and suddenly I forget how to breathe. He’s close. Too close. I can feel the heat of him, the strength in his grip, the scent of leather and cedar clinging to his skin. Every nerve in my body stands at attention.
“Like this,” he murmurs near my ear, adjusting the position of my arm. His breath skates across my neck, warm and slow, and a shiver runs down my spine. My knees nearly give out. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from leaning back into him, from pressing into the solid line of his chest just to feel something reckless.
“Better,” he says as I throw the rope again. It lands closer this time, and I whoop like I just won a trophy. “Beginner’s luck,” he mutters.
“Or excellent instruction,” I shoot back, turning my head, and nearly colliding with his mouth. We’re inches apart. His eyes flick down to my lips, then back up. The air between us shifts. Thickens.
Say something. Move. Do anything but melt.
But I don’t move. Neither does he.
Not until Emmy’s laughter echoes across the yard, breaking the moment like a splash of cold water. I step back, heart racing, hands still tingling from where he touched me.
Cash doesn’t say a word. His jaw tightens slightly, like he’s biting back something neither of us is ready to say. Then he grabs the rope and nods toward the next post.
“Let’s see if you can do it twice.”
Challenge accepted.
And this time, when I step up to throw the rope, I feel something different settle in my chest. Not just determination, but pride. The kind that isn’t borrowed from someone else’s approval. It’s mine. I earned it. One stubborn toss at a time.
But that look in his eyes? That tension curling low in my belly?
That’s not going away anytime soon.
Cash clearly doesn’t expect me to follow through. That much is obvious in the way he half-watches me as he pretends to adjust the saddle on a horse that already looks perfect. But I’m not just here to pose for a country music video. I pick up the rope again and face the post, jaw set, heart steady.
The first toss is bad, too low, too slow. I grind my teeth and reset.
“Don’t force it,” he mutters behind me, voice dry. “Let the rope do the work.”
I tune him out. Tune everything out. There’s only the target, the feel of the rope in my hand, the rhythm of breath in my lungs. I swing, release, and—
The rope sails perfectly through the air, looping around the post like I meant it all along.
Cash lets out a low whistle. “Huh.”
“You sound surprised,” I say, trying to keep my grin in check.
“Maybe I am.”
I keep going. Again. And again. Rope. Reset. Throw. Miss. Adjust. Throw. Land. Until sweat’s trickling down my back and my arms are sore. Cash leans against the fence, watching, silent now, brows drawn, lips tight.
“You done staring?” I call over, breathless.
His eyes flick to mine. “Not even close.”
The answer is so blunt, so unlike his usual gruff nonchalance, that it knocks something loose in my chest.
But I don’t let it stop me.
“I want to saddle a horse again next,” I say, peeling off the gloves. "It's been awhile."
