Page 45 of Knot my First Rodeo

Chapter

Fifteen

Clint

The barbecue place smells like mesquite and pig fat, which pretty much makes it the best place I've ever walked into after a long day in the arena. My jeans are still stiff with dried sweat and dirt, with my shirt clinging to the spots between my shoulder blades where the dust turned to mud and then dried again.

I should be starving. I was starving twenty minutes ago. Now I’m watching Autumn rearrange coleslaw with the tines of her fork, and I forget what hunger feels like.

She’s been off since we left the rodeo grounds. Not quiet. Autumn doesn’t really do quiet. Sharper around the edges, maybe. Her crack about our “fan club” landed wrong the second it left her mouth.

"You gonna eat that, or rearrange it?" I ask, nodding at her plate.

Her eyes flick up to mine, gray and direct, then drop back to the shredded cabbage. "I'm eating."

"You're performing surgery."

"Don't care for coleslaw. Thought I'd try it anyway. Obviously a mistake."

She pushes the plate toward the center of the table, her knuckles brushing mine as she pulls her hand back. The contact is brief and accidental, but she doesn't flinch from it. Doesn't acknowledge it, either. That's new. Or maybe it's not new, maybe I'm just noticing things I shouldn't.

Tripp's across from us, demolishing a rack of ribs, sauce smeared across his jaw. He hasn't noticed anything different about Autumn, or if he has, he’s too busy eating to say so. Briggs is on my left, working on a brisket sandwich, his eyes moving between his plate and the window, like he's waiting for someone to show up.

I should be eating. I ordered the pulled pork plate and it's getting cold, the sauce congealing at the edges. My hand finds my fork, but my attention stays on her.

She's watching me.

I feel it before I see it, that prickle at the side of my face that means someone’s watching too long. I glance up and catch her staring. Her lips part before she reaches for her water.

Neither of us looks away fast enough.

"What?" she asks, her chin lifting.

"Nothing."

"You were staring."

"So were you."

Her jaw tightens, a small muscle jumping at the corner. She drinks her water. I should let it go, pick up my fork, eat my goddamn pork, and stop noticing the way her throat moves when she swallows.

I don't.

"Marissa’s not my girlfriend," I declare, the words coming out before I decide on them.

Autumn's glass hits the table harder than necessary. "Didn't ask."

"You didn't have to."

Her spine straightens against the booth, jaw locking like I've challenged her. "I don't care who you date, Clint. Any of you, actually. I'm a guest. Temporary. Remember?"

She says the word like it tastes bad. Like she's reminding herself more than me.

"Never said you weren't," I tell her.

"Then why bring it up?"

I don't have an answer that wouldn't sound like admitting something. I reach for my tea instead, the glass sweating against my palm, and take a long drink that does nothing for the dryness in my throat.