Page 52 of One Last Rodeo

A woman walks up to my table and smiles like she’s doing me a favor by looking my way. “Care if I join you, cowboy?”

“I do.”

Her brows pull together. “O…kay then.” She walks away. Good. She was blocking my view anyway. I need zero distractions from my current full-time job: glowering at Catalina from across the room like a man with absolutely no self-respect. Making sure no one touches her. Even her date.

Her back. Her ass. Her hips. Her everything.

I’m not touching her either. I’ve made that clear. In my head. Out loud to myself in the mirror when I was getting ready in my old bedroom, knowing she was ten feet away getting dressed in the guest bedroom. I set a line, put up the boundary, told myself I wouldn’t disrespect her by making a move unless she told me to. You know, did the whole bit.

I even convinced myself we were becoming friends first. This morning, when we were on the plane, her whole pretty face lit up when I brought her that eye mask, wine bottle, and pizza. I could handle that. I can handle knowing that I'm one of her friends now. One of the few trusted people in her circle who know her secrets… and her warmth.

Except apparently friends wear sundresses with red flowers on them and low-cut necklines that show off her perky tits.

Since when? Since when does she get dressed up like…thatand yet, I’ve never seen it?

Friends don’t keep that from each other. Friends don’t show up looking like trouble wrapped in sin for a date with another man. Friends would at least give the other person a heads up before they walk out of their guest bedroom with their dark hair shiny, smelling like cocoa and sunshine.

And why the hell does that red floral print bring out the warmth in her skin even more? The deep, almost-henna brown of her hair? The softness around her eyes that she tries so hard to pretend she doesn’t have except when she's drinking?

And worst of all—why the fuck is she smiling at this loser?

I'm going to have some strong words with June when I see her next.Because this is all her fault. Catalina didn't even want to get on a dating app. June practically forced this onto her.

Her date looks like every other civilian Nashville guy, which is exactly why I try to avoid this city anytime I’m home. There's a mustache. A cowboy hat. Carhartt shirt that’s never seen a day of real work. Boots too clean. Hands too soft. The kind of man who plays cowboy on the weekends, then goes home to his cute little apartment and logs onto his remote job to count numbers and read emails.

Two things I'd hate, probably because I could never do them efficiently.

Nope. Couldn’t be me. I’m not built like that.

But Catalina doesn’t seem annoyed by his whole… shtick. She looks different from the last few nights I've seen her on the circuit. Looser. Softer. There’s a lightness in her shoulders that isn’t always there, and I wonder how much of that has to do with me being here, or with her doing something new. I hope it’s all because of me. I hope it's because she feels safe knowing I’m nearby.

Her arm shifts as she laughs at somethingBrocksays, the muscles in her shoulder catching the dim light. Her dress sways around her hips, and I have to grit my teeth when the guy lets his gaze slide down her back and—yeah. There it is. He’s checking out her ass.

Not obviously. Not crassly. But enough that my fists clench. He has no idea she’s only here for three nights. No clue she came with me. No clue she’s already too good for him.

He thinks he’s getting a one-night stand. I doubt he even knows she’s a fucking doctor. That her hands aren't something to hold on a date because they're insured on a five-million-dollar policy each. That they're more than valuable, they're precise. They’re gentle. They’re the most important hands in any room she walks into. They’re perfect exactly like the rest of her.

There’s no fucking way he knows any of that. I might not get to sleep with her again, but he sure as hell isn’t going to either. Honestly, I’m not going to letanyoneget that close.

Yeah, Jensen. That’ll work.Trying to control a woman like Catalina is like trying to cage the wind with your bare hands.

I watch her pick up her glass of red wine, her second by my count, and take a sip. I’ve been keeping track, making sure she’s having fun without pushing it too far. Then she picks up the dart for her turn. And of course, like everything else she tries, she nails it. First try. Center of the board.

I have no idea if she’s ever played before, but I wouldn’t be surprised if this is her first time and she’s already better than most regulars. She's so good at everything she touches. A natural talent. How is it that the people in her life have held back complimenting her? I've only known her for two weeks, and all I want to do is tell her how fucking cool she is all the time. Why doesn't she think she's worthy of hearing that?

Her date leans in, murmuring something into her ear. She gives him a polite smile and a nod. He heads toward the restroom. She heads towardme.

“You’re being super creepy,” she hisses as soon as she reaches me, hands planted on her hips.

I smile. Because I like it when she yells at me.

“Did he notice me watching you two?”

“No. But I did.”

“Well, what would you rather I do?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing. I’m ready to leave.”