Page 91 of Buck ’Em Cowgirl

“Nah.” He leaned back in his chair, stretching out his long legs. “We drink at the bar, hang at Kline’s or out at events. No one ever comes here.”

My shoulders dropped. “That’s kinda sad, Banks.”

He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Ain’t sad. Just how I like it.”

I rocked slowly in my chair, staring out at the dark horizon, but my mind was miles away, spinning over what Beau had said.

I was the only one who had been inside his home. The only one who had sat at his table, eaten his food, and stood in his kitchen while he cooked for me.

Beau had a way of making it seem like he was open, like he was easy to know. The way he joked, the way he flirted, the way he carried himself like he had the whole world figured out. But this? This told me otherwise.

His home wasn’t a place to sleep. It was a place where he let the world stay on the outside, but he let me in. I wasn’t sure what to do with that thought.

Maybe I was reading too much into it. Maybe it didn’t mean anything.

I knew better, and as I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry, I risked a glance at him. He wasn’t looking at me anymore, his gaze fixed on the land in front of us, the beer in his hand dangling lazily between his fingers.

This wasn’t a game to him.

I exhaled softly, forcing a smile. “That was the truth then?”

“Sure was,” he murmured, his gaze flicking to mine. “Alright, let me come up with another two.”

I turned away, watching as a bird soared overhead, its song carrying through the quiet night.

“My dad and I have a phenomenal relationship.”

That had to be a lie—or at least not the full truth. He told me he’d moved out young, and though repaired, their relationship couldn’t have been seamless. Maybe it was a foundation, but one with cracks. Still, his dad followed him to events, stayed involved. That had to count for something . . . right?

“What’s the last one before I make my final decision?” I turned my rocking chair slightly, dropping my knees so I could see him better beneath the brim of his hat.

“The last one . . .” He lowered his beer and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

I arched a brow. “Oh, the suspense is killing me.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, but his gaze stayed locked on mine, unreadable. A beat passed, and then another, before he finally spoke.

“I want to kiss you again.”

I couldn’t. No. This was wrong.

I shouldn’t feel the same.

I couldn’t feel the same.

My stomach clenched, a hot twist of something I refused to acknowledge curling low inside me. I forced a laugh—something between a giggle and a sputter that sounded so unnatural I almost cringed at myself.

“Yeah, that’s a lie,” I blurted out, trying to shove the words between us like a physical barrier.

Beau didn’t move, didn’t even blink. Panic prickled at the edges of my mind. He couldn’t want to kiss me.

It was the lie. It had to be.

But what if it wasn’t?

If we kissed—if I let this happen—then what? Then I wouldn’t have my friend, and I liked being with him. Liked the easy quiet between us. Liked the way he looked at me like I wasn’t broken. Liked that he didn’t push when he saw me spiraling, that he let me be until I could pull myself back together.

I couldn’t lose that.