Andhe’s bringing his guitar?
I’ve died and gone to heaven.
I spent all day at my desk, pretending to work while I was plotting tonight’s picnic. Slash, I was fantasizing that it would go so perfectly, that we’d have such a memorable time confidingin each other, I’d end up naked. Totally blissed out in a postorgasmic haze and wrapped in a blanket while Ryder played me songs on his guitar without his shirt on.
Now I’m starting to think there really is a chance of somethinggoodhappening tonight. A small chance, mind you. Maybe one or two percent. But something is changing between Ryder and me, and our relationship is moving in a direction I like. A lot.
It’s a win I need right now. My job is more unbearable than ever, and Dad dropped another not-so-subtle hint today about me hanging up my rodeo dreams for good.
“You can play what you want.” I shake the hair out of my eyes. “But I bet I can get you to play what I want too.”
He pushes out his lips. “Them’s fightin’ words, little lady.”
“I’m no lady. Get your shoes and let’s go.”
He’s full-on smiling now, the kind that touches his eyes and makes me feel lightheaded. “But you are a good friend. Gimme five?”
I don’t wanna be just friends. Never did.
I clear my throat and shake the nonexistent hair out of my eyes again. “You got it.”
Exactly four minutes later—not like I’ve been staring impatiently at the clock on the dash or anything—Ryder emerges once more from his house.
There’s a sudden, sharp drop in my middle, like the way my stomach dips when a plane hits a big bump in the air.
Ryder changed into jeans and boots. He’s still wearing the same T-shirt, but he threw a suede jacket over it.
He’s also wearing a cowboy hat.
Alsoalso, he’s carrying a guitar in one hand and a fifth of reposado tequila in the other. I can tell by the color of the liquid in the bottle. It’s expensive stuff, a little sweeter and smoother than blanco tequila, and it’s all Ryder drinks.
My nipples tingle, hardening to tight, aching points as I watch him approach the car with his unhurried, bowlegged stride. I frown when he rounds the front of my car, confused as to why he’s heading for my side.
“Outta the driver’s seat,” he says, setting the tequila on the hood of the car so he can open my door.
“What?” I blink. “Why? I’m the one takingyouon?—”
“You’re with me, you don’t drive. You also need to rest that arm.” He tilts his head. “I know it’s your nature to fight me on everything?—”
“Well, yeah. It’s fun, isn’t it?”
He gives me that lopsided smirk, the one where one corner of his mouth is curled upward, and I swear my heart stops beating for a full five seconds.
“Sometimes.” The edges of his eyes crinkle. “But please don’t fight me on this, yeah?”
I meet his eyes. “Fine. Just this once, though. And if you want me to drive home, just say the word.”
“That won’t be necessary. Now scoot your ass over.”
I climb over the center console, plopping down into the passenger seat with about as much elegance as a newborn foal who hasn’t learned to use its legs yet.
He hands me his guitar, which feels like a big moment. But I don’t have time to process that because thenhe’sin the car too. My SUV isn’t huge, but it’s not small either. You wouldn’t know it, however, by howenormousRyder looks in the front seat. His legs are so long that his knees almost touch the dashboard.
Chuckling, he adjusts the seat, sliding it all the way back. Then draping his left arm over the steering wheel, he reaches for the gear shift with his right hand and swings his head to look at me.
“Ready, darlin’?”
Even if Colt murders us after whatever goes down tonight, it will have been worth it just to experience this moment.“Born ready, baby.”
