Page 57 of One Last Rodeo
“So that’s why you set sail and pivoted gears?” he asks quietly.
“I won’t let him take the credit for my midlife crisis.”
Jensen huffs out a small laugh. “Good. Don't let him take anything more from you.”
The water ripples lightly between us, and I watch him. His relaxed posture, the way the moonlight carves angles along his cheekbones, the faint haze of steam drifting around him. The easy smile on his handsome face.
“I’m glad you did it,” he says seriously. “I’m glad you joined the Iron Horn Series.”
“I am too.”
His smile deepens.
“You know, you’re nothing like what I expected before I started working with the team.”
He raises a brow. “You had expectations of little ole' me?”
“Not you specifically. Riders in general, yeah. Cowboys. Hayes prepped me before I left Whitewood Creek on what to expect. He told me not to expect too much of you all or I'd end up being disappointed.”
Jensen throws his head back and laughs—this deep, warm rumble that vibrates through the night. His eyes tilt up toward the moon, and while he’s distracted, I let myself really look.
The water droplets sliding down his chest.
The bubbles clinging to the faint trail of hair near his bull tattoo.
The bulges in his biceps spread across the back of the tub, arms spanning the entire length of it.
He reaches for a button and shuts the bubbles off, causing everything to go quiet and still. Out here, with no light pollution and no city noise, silence feels intimate. Like the world shrinks to only him and me and the warm water between us.
“You know,” I say, drifting a little closer to him so that I can see the scar where I cut him up close, “you could’ve used scar cream on this. Or strips. That scar could’ve disappeared completely. Did one of my nurses forget to tell you that during your after-care prep discussion?”
He glances down at his chest, then back up at me. I move closer, the water parting around us, and before I can talk myself out of it my fingers find the scar—that faint, raised line I put there myself.
Most people touch a scar and feel damage and adhesions. I touch it and feel every layer underneath. Skin. Fat. Fascia. The sternum I sawed through with my own hands while he was somewhere else entirely, his blood moving through a machine because I'd stopped his heart to fix it. Six layers between the world and the thing that keeps him alive, and I cut through every single one of them.
I know this chest better than he does. I've been inside it.
Yet even with all those layers between us now, I can still feel it beat from outside his body.
He draws in a careful breath, like my touch does something to him. I wonder if he wants me to stop. My insecurities tell meyes, but the look in his eyes tells meno. Keep going.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t ask permission to touch you first.”
His mouth parts slightly. Our faces are so close now that his eyes are all I can see. The steam from the hot water is curling around us, cascading everything in soft lighting and hiding us from the stars watching overhead.
“You never have to ask me for permission,” he says roughly. “You can touch me anytime you want. Think that's the rule considering you've had your hands inside this chest."
Chapter 17 - Catalina
I brush my thumb up the scar, memorizing the feel of the raised skin.
"I never minded the scar," he says softly. "It reminds me of you now. Reminds me that I’m not invincible anymore, too.”
“You could practically be,” I whisper. “If you gave riding up. You could live a safe, long life, you know?”
His jaw ticks. There’s a quick flash of tension in his gaze. “I don’t like when you tell me to give up the one thing I love most.”
I study his gaze. I can see he's upset. I've been direct with Jensen in the past and it's usually rolled right off him. This is one of those moments where I'd normally shrug off his frustration and annoyance and move straight to cold. But I don't want to be cold with him tonight. I don’t want to be cold with him ever again.
