“Sorry I forgot to bring cups.” I hold out the bottle to Ryder.
He takes it from me, shaking his head as he brings the bottle to his lips. “Tastes better straight from the bottle anyway.”
I watch, transfixed, as he tips back his head and his throat bobs on a swallow. I feel the slide of his Adam’s apple between my legs.
I hold out my hand. He presses the bottle into my palm. Taking a longer pull of tequila, I imagine I can taste him on the glass.
Now that I’m a little buzzed, I acheeverywhere. My hands shake as I help Ryder build a bonfire in the firepit he and theboys dug out here years ago. I can barely eat the supper I packed us even though it’s really good stuff: Mom’s fried chicken, succotash, and broccoli-and-cheese cornbread.
The sky darkens, and the stars put on a spectacular show. But they don’t hold my attention the way Ryder’s mouth does. Or his legs. He stretches them out toward the fire, and it hits me just how long they are.
The man is huge. And strong. And thick in all the right places.
My eyes stray to his crotch.Is he huge and thick everywhere?
He’s got the tequila in his hand again, and he’s looking intently into the fire. A pair of deep, thoughtful grooves are etched into the spot between his eyebrows. My stomach flips at his handsomeness. Heart throbs with the desire to know what he’s thinking.
Tounderstandhim. Or maybe to know him in a way he’s only now allowing me to, years into our relationship.
Let me in again, Ry. Please.
“What’s on your mind?” I tug at my jeans as I casually stretch out my own legs, pretending like my pulse isn’t going haywire inside my skin. “I can tell those wheels are turnin’.”
He tips his chin downward and uses his palm to pop the cork back into the bottle. “I was thinking about what song I wanted to play for you.”
I smile. “So you really are gonna play.”
“You really want me to?” He sets the bottle aside.
“Of course I want you to.” Reaching back, I grab the guitar that I carefully set behind me earlier. “Why the hell do you think I brought you out here?”
“I thought you wanted to thank me for the boots.” He taps his toe against mine. “And for the excellent CPR.”
I hand him the guitar. “I like you best when you’re doing your cowboy-who-knows-music thing. So please,pleaseplay.”
“Yeah?” Arching a brow, he folds up his legs and settles the guitar in his lap. “You forgot the hot part, by the way.Hotcowboy who knows music.”
Laughing, I nudge his knee with mine. “I think you’rehottestwhen you open up and lose yourself in the music and just…let go.”
He scoffs, running his fingers over the guitar strings. “Of course you do.”
My heart lurches as goose bumps rise on my arms at the sound. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head, the light from the fire flickering over his features. “You’re just…you.Like no one else. You cut to the quick, and you ask the hard questions, and you push my buttons, and…yeah, Billie.” He turns and meets my eyes. “I know we joke a lot, but I appreciate how unbullshitty you are. It’s a breath of fresh air.”
I let out a nervous laugh. “Unbullshitty?”
“It’s a compliment.”
Oh Lord, I’m about to have a heart attack, aren’t I? “Why does that appeal to you?”
“Because.” He strums the guitar again, breaking eye contact to reach up and tune a string. “Makes me realize how full of shit I’ve been about some things in my life. Or numb to them, at the very least.”
“What things?”
“I think we’re done with twenty questions, darlin’.”
“I like it.” Swallowing, I tuck my hair behind my ear. “When you call me that. Since we’re being honest and shit.”
