Page 72 of One Last Rodeo

"Nineteen. First year on the circuit." I sit on the edge of the bed and pull off my boots. "Dawson drove six hours to watch. Wasn’t even televised online. Made one hundred bucks. I thought I was rich."

She nods slowly, still staring at the ribbon. Then she turns, crosses the room, and sits on the bed beside me, close enough that our arms are touching. She reaches past me to the nightstand without explanation, picks up the small bottle of lavender hand lotion that grandma keeps in every room of the cabin, and uncaps it.

"Give me your hands."

I blink. "What?"

"Your hands." She holds hers out, waiting.

I stretch out both hands, and she takes them without ceremony, squeezes a small amount of lotion into her palm and rolls it between her hands a few times. I notice that. The warming of the lotion, the deliberateness of wanting to be sure her hands are warm before they come in contact with my skin. Then she places her fingers on mine and starts to work the liquid into my knuckles gently.

Her thumbs press into the joints with exactly the right amount of pressure. She knows what she's doing, knows where it's tight, finds it without me having to tell her.

"You've never used lotion a day in your life," she says quietly, not looking up at me.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Your hands are like sandpaper."

"They have to be to hang onto the rope.”

"Mm." She works her way across each knuckle, steady and methodical. I watch the top of her head, the dark curls falling forward slightly and the way she’s biting down on her full bottom lip as she concentrates on what she’s doing. "Does that hurt?"

"No." It's the opposite of hurt. I'm not sure I have a word for what it is. It feels good. It feels intimate. It feels like she’s taking care of me the only way she knows how.

She works in silence for a while. Outside the window, the lake is dark and still, and through it I can see the faint scattered light of stars that you can't see from any city I've ever ridden in. It’s a beautiful night but the only place I want to be right now is right here.

“I liked today,” Catalina says, still working my hands in hers. “Seeing the ranch. Thank you for taking me.”

"Yeah?"

"The horse.” She pauses. "I liked that part too. And you."

I turn my head to look at her. She doesn't look up from my hands. She drops them, then tentatively reaches for the hem of my shirt. I’ve already taken off my sling preparing for bed, so I help her, lifting it up and off until my chest is exposed. Her eyes dart to my shoulder.

“May I?”

I nod. Her fingers move to my shoulder, much gentler this time. She kneads the tight muscles with slow pressure, her touch careful. Unlike the exams she's given me before, I can tell she's using an entirely different technique—probably something she picked up during her years as the head doctor for the professional baseball team. With each pass of her hands, the tension eases from my joint, the muscles loosening beneath her touch until I'm practically melting into her like butter.

"I liked that you were scared for me," she says quietly while she works.

"Terrified," I correct.

"I know." Her thumbs press softly in slow circles. "No one's worried about me in a long time. Maybe ever."

I think of her ex. The man who had her for four years and apparently spent most of it making her feel like the least important person in the room. I think about the teenage girl who wrotedoctoron her homework so her parents would look at her and be proud. I think about a woman who's spent her whole life being impressive and how different that is from being cherished.

"Get used to it," I say roughly.

She finally looks up. Her eyes are darker and steady. I reach over and tuck a curl back from her face, easy, without thinking about it. She lets me.

She caps the lotion, sets it on the nightstand, and lies back against the pillow. We already know where this is headed, but that doesn’t mean I’m looking to rush it.

I shift my weight until I'm hovering over her, chest to chest, face to face. I'm shirtless, she's in just that oversized sleep shirt, and when I lift the hem of it, I find nothing underneath it. Something about that pulls a possessive growl from my chest.

"We have to be quiet," she whispers, her hand flattening against my sternum like she can feel what just happened to my heart. "Your grandma would hate me."

"My grandma already loves you." I palm her breast, feeling the warm, soft weight of it, and squeeze gently. She lets out a breathy moan.