It flies out of my hand and blows in Ryder’s direction. He lets out a yelp of surprise before the blanket knocks his hat clean off his head.
“Whoa whoawhoa.” He pretends to flail backward as he’s tangled up in the blanket, arms windmilling, eyes wide, lips pulled into a wide, white smile. “You tryin’ to kill me, Billie Wallace?”
“Why do you think I brought the blanket?” Without thinking, I dart forward and grab his hand, yanking him upright.
I yank himagainstme. Well, almost. My arm—the good one—ends up trapped between his chest and forearm. We’re suddenly close.
Very, very close.
When I look up, his mouth—his face—is two inches from mine. I can make out the flecks of indigo in his otherwise crystal clear cerulean irises.
“Why’s that?” His chest rises. Falls. His hair sticks up every which way. It’s adorable.
My lips throb. “I planned to use it to roll up your lifeless body. Obviously.”
His eyes do that crinkling-at-the-edges thing again. “You’re puttin’ some kinda murder on me, that’s for sure.”
“Oh yeah?”Is he joking? He can’t be joking. But?—
“Yeah.”
We hold eye contact for one heartbeat. Another.
Another.
I’m not sure my pulse worked this hard during my one and only official rodeo race. There’s a flutter between my legs too, the longing in my core unfurling so quickly it takes over my whole body in the blink of an eye.
But then Ryder is clearing his throat. He lets go of my hand and turns, setting the blanket down on the ground.
I’m disappointed he didn’t kiss me. But I’m also…thrilled? Because I could tell hewantedto lean in.
I can tell the tension between us is eating him alive too.
Is this actually gonna happen? Is this cowboy actually going to let me lay him down on that blanket and do as I please?
Bending down, I help straighten the blanket, then I grab Ryder’s hat. He holds out his hand, but I shake my head.
“You know what has to happen ifIwear this hat.”
“But then your DNA is gonna be all over me”—he grabs my wrist, and a bolt of lust cracks down my middle—“and you’ll be the primary suspect in my suspicious death.”
“I want to make a joke about little deaths—you know, the French word for?—”
“I know, Billie.” Do I detect a hint of pain in his voice? He releases my wrist. “Hat, please.”
“Fine.” With a sigh of exasperation, I go up on my tiptoes and drop the hat onto his head. “But we both know it would look better on me.”
“Darlin’, everything looks better on you.”
Get over here, then.
“Let’s take a shot,” I blurt.
“Don’t gotta ask me twice.”
He grabs the picnic basket, and I grab the tequila. We sit on the blanket, keeping a respectable distance between his right arm and my left.
I’m the one who’s going to end up dead, I think as I uncork the bottle and take a swig. The tequila is sweet on my tongue. I want to smack my lips at the deliciousness of the liquor’s fiery slide down my throat.
