The air between us thickens until it feels almost tangible. He steps out barefoot, abruptly wrapping the towel low around his hips. His knuckles blanch around the towel, his chest rising rapidly. He exhales the staggered breath before inhaling again, slower, like he’s forcing himself to remain in control.
“Teagan,” he says quietly. My name sounds rough as it escapes his mouth.
I try to speak, but nothing comes out.
Easton swears under his breath, the curse barely more than air, before turning away abruptly. He reaches for the clothesdraped over the nearby chair, dragging on a pair of jeans under the towel with quick, efficient movements. The towel drops, and my traitorous gaze falls with it, straight to the tuft of hair beneath the splayed zipper.
“I didn’t know you were here,” he mumbles, not looking at me. He zips up quickly and pulls a shirt over his head, covering the skin I can’t drag my eyes from. Every movement rebuilds a wall, each layer restoring whatever barrier he has been trying to maintain, until the moment is almost gone.
“I knocked,” I manage.
He nods once, like that’s explanation enough. An unanswered door is the reason to be standing before him as he steps out of the shower. After grabbing the towel from the floor, he tosses it into the bathroom as the silence stretches between us, heavy with everything neither of us is saying.
“I… I was going… into town,” I stammer through my announcement. “I thought maybe you’d like to come.” He looks at me—really looks at me—something raw flickering beneath the surface.Conflict? Want? Fear?Before I can place it, it’s gone. “I’ve got things to finish here.” The words land flat between us.
I nod, though the disappointment presses against my ribs, hard enough to ache. “Okay.” Being ignored hurts, but apparently, being dismissed hurts more. Turning to leave before I can change my mind, I muster, “I’ll see ya around.”
His jaw tightens, and he nods. “See you around.”
The night air outside is cool against my overheated skin. I breathe deeply, trying to steady something inside my chestmyself that refuses to settle, as I walk briskly back to the main house, needing to put distance between the two of us once more.
By the time I reach The Dew Drop, the sky is fully dark, the last trace of sunset erased behind the low stretch of fields. My boots slap against the concrete of the sidewalk as I make my way to the door. The building glows ahead of me, neon beer signs flickering in the windows, casting pink and blue halos across the dust-coated glass. Music seeps through the walls, bass low and steady, vibrating faintly beneath my ribs even before I step inside. I pause for half a second, my hand on the door, before pushing it open.
The familiar hum of music and conversation spills out to greet me, wrapping around me instantly. It’s easier here. Simpler. There’s no silence to fill, no tension stretching between words, and no unanswered questions.
No Easton.
I move toward the bar automatically, weaving through bodies that sway and lean into each other, people brushing past me without really seeing me. The barstool creaks faintly when I climb onto it, the worn vinyl familiarbeneath my hands. I’ve sat here a hundred times before, maybe more, but tonight it feels different. Tonight, it feels like I’m hiding.
“Whiskey,” I tell the bartender. My voice comes out steady, even though I don’t feel composed at all.
He nods without asking which kind and pours it quickly, sliding the glass toward me. The amber liquid catches the neon light. I stare at it for a moment, watching the surface tremble faintly as my fingers curl around the glass. I lift it and drink without hesitation. The burn is sharp and immediate, dragging down my throat and settling deep in my chest. I set the empty glass down and signal for another before I can change my mind.
“Teagan?” The low, familiar call of my name startles me. Boone slides onto the stool beside me before I manage to place his voice. He smells like leather, cedar, and the almost overpowering cologne he’s worn since hitting puberty. His hat sits low on his forehead, and his jaw is shadowed with stubble. When I look over at him, his lips curve into the same easy half-smile that used to undo me effortlessly.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says, his voice warm with surprise. “I thought that was you.”
I swallow, forcing something that resembles a smile. “Hey, Boone.”
His eyes rake over me slowly, like he’s taking inventory of something he remembers once owning. “You look good,” he shares, grabbing my shot when the bartender places it before me, and throwing it back. “But you’ve always looked good.”
It shouldn’t matter, but it does. He’s looking at me like he wants me, like he never stopped. And right now, that feels amazing.
He signals at the bartender without asking me first. “Two more.”
I open my mouth to protest, but quickly close it. The glasses appear quickly. Boone picks one up and holds it out to me, his fingers brushing mine when I take it. “To old times,” he boasts.
I hesitate for half a second before clinking my glass against his and drinking. The burn is as sharp as the first, hitting my bloodstream like a spark. Boone watches me the whole time, his gaze steady and unreadable.
“Still can’t say no to me, huh?” he says, a teasing edge to his voice.
I roll my eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He chuckles softly, leaning a little closer. Just enough that I’m aware of him, of the solid warmth of his body beside mine.
The shots flow too freely as we talk. The conversation is superficial at best, nothing important. I pretend to listen intently as he tells me all about the ranch he’s been working on outside Amarillo, but my thoughts are elsewhere.
Boone leans in slightly, his fingers dusting along my arm as his voice drops just enough to feel private. “I missed you, you know.”
