Page 10 of Sunday's Best

The heat of Holden’s stare makes me glance across the table to find his head tilted slightly, cheek muscle popping in and out.

“Last night was tame in comparison to some celebrations.” Logan chuckles. “Did you have fun?”

My stomach clangs and lurches, and I shake off his touch to gather my hair into an unsecured bun at the nape of my neck. I’m hot and cold and feeling as if the pot of coffee I drank this morning is about to make an appearance all over the table.

“I—” Am saved by the waitress reappearing with three huge milkshakes.

With the first sip of my frothy, cold milkshake, my shoulders finally relax and, troublingly, I may even moan a little under my breath. And I say that only because of the way Holden’s gaze is riveted to my face, expression laced with something I don’t recognize despite too many hours in the truck spent watching his every minute muscle movement. His lip has the tiniest quirk—not quite a smile, but it’s coy and teasing and aimed at me. With that, I’m hot all over once again.

“I was right about the milkshakes, wasn’t I?” Logan asks between loud slurps.

“I maintain it’s too early for ice cream,” Holden replies.

Logan looks to me for backup and reminds me of my role here, which is definitely not observing the way my boyfriend’s brother’s tongue flicks to the corner of his mouth to reach a stray droplet of milkshake.

“You were right.” I smile at Logan, cradling my icy glass in both hands and taking another drink.

“I know what my girl likes.”

Holden snorts. “Ah, yeah. It was a huge swing to assume the girl who pours half a bottle of creamer into her coffee would also like milkshakes.”

Logan’s laugh is easy. “Don’t be jealous that I got to her first, bro.”

“Devastated. How will I ever find a woman who likes chocolate?”

“I think that might go against the no-fun terms you have with the sea witch,” I offer.

“I get three loopholes per year,” Holden says.

“And you’re using one of them on a truck stop diner milkshake?” I smirk. It’s too much fun getting on this grouchy asshole’s nerves. “God, you really are boring.”

Logan’s arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me against his side so he can press his lips to my hair. And precisely then, Holden quits looking at me for the first time since we sat down and instead glares down at his milkshake as if it’s personally wronged him. To be fair, maybe it has. He could have issues with dairy, and I’m reading too much into this.

But the strained despair in his voice when he mutters, “Why the fuck is the food taking so long? I want to get out of here,” says maybe I’m not.

Five

The evening sun is seated low in the sky but still burns hot enough to bake the aluminum bleachers and add the smell of tanning skin to the leather, fried food, and horse aromas that fill the air.

We’re stopped in some small town for a weeknight rodeo on our way to a roping clinic the guys are signed up for later in the week, and I’ve never been more thankful for a side quest in my entire life. Something about the milkshakes and fries—or maybe the adrenaline rush of thinking he got away with whatever the hell he was doing at the last rodeo—had Logan feeling extra chatty after we left the diner yesterday. An hour later, he’d stumbled upon this rodeo on his social media feed, and the boys made a spur-of-the-moment decision to go three hours out of our way for it.

At first, I was surprised Holden agreed so easily, but I’m quickly learning we’re more alike than I initially thought. Both resolute in our intent to keep the boat from rocking, despite Logan’s tendency to create waves.

Not that I have any say, since I’m simply along for the ride, but I would’ve happily agreed anyway. A rodeo means less time with the three of us in a confined space. The nights on the road, when we’re parked in random truck stops or pullouts on the side of the highway, are the worst. Holden’s always around, always simultaneously tugging at my last nerve and the tightly wound coil beneath my navel. And I’m forced to play happy couple with Logan, which only feels more fraudulent as the days go on.

In keeping up appearances, I settle into a spot along the fence rail, leaning my bare arms on the warm metal, just in time for the team roping event. I never bother to watch the entire rodeo, so there’s no sense in cramming myself into the sea of sweaty people sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in the stands. I’m here for Logan’s runs, and once my duty is complete, I’ll head back to the trailer with some piping-hot poutine and curl up with a book.

Dust motes glint in the golden sunset, kicked up by a steer who’s gallivanting around the arena as if he’s mocking the cowboys who couldn’t catch him.

I see Holden first. The tension he always carries has sharpened into something lethal here. He’s controlled and focused, with square shoulders and a set jaw. His cowboy hat sits low over his brow to cut the sun’s glare, and he doesn’t fuck around for a single second getting his horse into the box.

Then Logan appears, and for a heartbeat, butterflies gather in my stomach for the first time in a long time. With a grin, he gives me a wink as he leisurely swings his rope at his side. Before him, I’d never met a person whose default was unabashed confidence. It’s what made me fall in love with him, kind of like every woman in the crowd seems to be—if the amount of phones being pulled out and aimed at him are any indication.

The duo sets themselves up in the two roping boxes on either side of the chute, and a few seconds later, the metal gate opens with a clang.

The steer bolts, and Logan is already surging ahead on horseback. With ease, as if it’s an extension of his arm, the loop of rope cuts through the air with one, then two rapid swings before gracefully settling around the steer’s head like a wreath.

Without a moment of hesitation, Holden’s there, snapping his own rope around the steer’s heels. Fast, precise, and without a single wasted movement.