“Don’t let him drive like an idiot,” Dad requests from the table, barely pulling his gaze from the book in front of him.
“I neverdo.”
He grunts softly in response. It’s his version of,have fun, and as close to,be safeas he’ll ever say out loud.
When I step into my room, I catch my reflection in the mirror over my dresser and stop mid-step. Dirt still smudges faintly along my jawline, and there is a faint bruise blooming on my forearm from yesterday’s stubborn gate.
I take a quick shower, dry my hair, and settle back in front of the mirror to finish getting ready when Knox bangs on my door. “Don’t take all night,” he shouts through it.
Out on the ranch, covered in sweat and dirt, I don’t think about how I look. Now, my hair hangs loose, instead of the tight braid I wear for work, falling in soft waves down my back. I swipe on eye shadow and mascara, darkening my lashes just enough to frame my eyes, then add a swipe of blush lipstick. Content with my hair and makeup, I slip into a ruffled white dress with a slit running up my left thigh. I add a brown leather belt before pulling on a matching pair of boots.
I give myself a once-over in the mirror. It’s a transformation from grit to gloss. I don’t look like the dirt-soiled cowgirl who walked into this room no less than twenty minutes ago. I stare at my reflection and shake my head.Why did I ask him?I don’t even remember deciding to. The words just slipped out.
The air has cooled by the time I step out onto the porch. I pull my thin denim jacket tight around my chest in a futile attempt to fight off the chill. “Finally.” Knox sighs dramatically, already halfway to the truck, the keys jingling in his hand. I roll my eyes and jog to catch up with him, my boots crunching over the gravel with every stride.
On the way, I pass the bunkhouse. The porch light glows dim and yellow against the dark, illuminating Easton. He sits in one of the old wooden chairs, tilted back on two legs, his hat resting low over his face. A notebook rests open in his lap as his pen moves slowly and steadily across the page. He looks up at the sound of my footsteps, and the light casts shadows along the hard lines of his jaw, accentuating the five o’clock shadow prickling along it. His posture is relaxed, but there is something introspective about the way he holds himself, like he’s living half inside his own head.It’s a look I see on him often.
He tips his hat slightly, a faint smile spreading across his face. The gesture is subtle and respectful, yet my stomach does a deeply inconvenient little flip. I give a polite smile back and continue to the truck.
“We should ask him to come,” Knox prompts when I reach him, waiting impatiently, opening my door.
Heat creeps up my neck as I climb into the truck. “I did.”
“You what?”
“I asked him,” I mutter, wishing he would shut the door so this cab could swallow me whole.
His grin spreads, slow and wolfish.Fuck…“As in you asked him to come with us? Or withyou?”
“Shut up,” I hiss, reaching for the handle to end this conversation myself. “Just get in and drive.”
Knox laughs as he rounds the truck and climbs inside. He starts the truck, and the engine rumbles to life, headlights cutting twin beams through the dark. Not heeding Dad’srequest, he stomps on the accelerator, and gravel spits behind us as we pull away from the ranch.
Livingston at night isn’t much different than it is during the day. It’s small and familiar, filled with the same faces I’ve been surrounded by since I was a kid. The only thing that changes when the sun goes down is the dirt-soiled clothes being replaced with clean denim adorned with rodeo buckles.
Main Street glows under old streetlamps, the storefront windows reflecting passing headlights. We park half a block from The Dew Drop. The sign—red neon script resting against weathered wood siding—flickers above the door.
I step out of the truck and tug my jacket tighter around my shoulders. Country music spills into the street every time someone walks inside, growing louder as we approach.
“You’re quiet,” Knox shares, studying me.
“Thinking.” Knox takes a seat on the wooden shelf outside Miller’s Hardware Store. “What are you doing?”
“Giving you a minute,” he teases. “This is new.”
“You’re one to talk.” I give him a playful shove and head toward the bar.He’s not wrong, though.Guys are usually the furthest thing from my thoughts. Mainly because I’ve already dated Livingston’s handful of eligible bachelors in my age bracket.
The second we step inside The Dew Drop, I’m hit with the familiar—and almost comforting—aromas of beer, sawdust, and a mixture of cheap cologne. A string of lights crisscrosses the ceiling, drawing my attention to the dance floor. It is packed full of couples tonight—cowboy hats, worn denim, and well-polished, oversized belt buckles in every direction. The band playing is local. They aren’t great, but they aren’t terrible, either.
We weave through the crowd toward the bar. Knox immediately draws the attention of a few girls perched on barstools in tight jeans—and even tighter tops—giggling obnoxiously.
Knox’s favorite: Buckle bunnies.
“Ladies,” Knox croons, tipping his hat and throwing them a cocky smile as we pass, only feeding into their giggles. He slips his arm around my shoulder and playfully pulls me close. “Gonna be a busy night.”
Gross.
The bartender tips he head at us in recognition. He holds up two fingers and shouts, “Two beers?” over the music.
