Page 61 of Homebound

Wyatt’s hair is pulled back into a loose, low bun at the nape of his neck, and it’s making me chug my prickly pear margarita in triple time. And those top three buttons undone on his button-down? I can’t stop imagining all those tanned muscles dripping wet in the shower.

I always thought I wanted a broody bad boy, but loyalty? Tenderness? Responsibility? Those are some pretty sexy qualities in a man. And apparently everyone else in this goddamn bar thinks so because these women can’t keep their eyes off him.

The rusty old bar is alive with couples twirling, two-stepping the night away, but Wyatt’s barely looked at anyone else tonight.

His eyes are on me, and mine are on him.

“I told you the rolled-up sleeves work,” I whisper in his ear, my tongue loose from the pink prickly pear margarita I’ve been sipping. If there are any poor decisions tonight, I’m blaming them on the salt rim. “That redhead by the bar’s been staring at you for the past thirty minutes.”

I would know. I clocked that when we walked inside. Between the redhead’s short jean skirt and Wyatt’s button-down, they look like the perfect two-stepping duo. I try not to let that bother me. As I watch, she peeks over her shoulder at him but quickly looks away when she finds me staring (okay, glaring) back.

“Really?” He keeps his eyes anchored to mine, never once leaving my face. “I didn’t notice. You’re the only woman I’m looking at tonight.”

The deep, guttural way Wyatt says that has my breathing turning shallow. I’m not sure if it’s the margarita or that damn shower memory, but he’s starting to feel nothing like my old friend and everything like a new man.

Maybe it’s because he hasn’t let go of me all night. Maybe it’s the way he can’t stop staring at the white cotton dress I borrowed from Lana. Maybe it’s how his hand keeps climbing higher and higher up my thigh, making my core ache. But it’s definitely because of the way he stood up for me to Brodie when no one else has.

I down my entire margarita in one gulp. “Who are you, and what have you done with my summer boy?”

His hand rubs burning circles on my thigh. “He’s still in here, but he’s grown up, which is something you need to realize.”

He pinches my chin, and a zing of need shoots right to my core. I lurch back on reflex, surprised by how turned-on that made me. His jaw visibly tightens at the new distance between us.

He picks up his whiskey on the rocks and takes a lengthy swig. When the glass is nearly empty, he sets it on the table and releases a huff, changing the subject. “Are you feeling better now after the ride?”

Thinking about that is going to ruin my night even though the tequila’s burned right through my garbage mood. Sometimes, I rely on alcohol to make me happy, which is a trash tactic, and one I don’t like doing all that often, but if there’s one thing that puts a smile on my face, it’s tequila.

“Let’s not talk about my failure today,” I mutter. “Yeah, I stayed on for six and a half seconds, so it’s progress, but until I make it for all eight, I won’t even score. I just need to stay on.”

His thumb moves to my forearm, and he begins tracing those little patterns there instead.

Burning patterns.

Branding patterns.

“You’re not a failure, Dakota,” he whispers the words, swollen with conviction, like it doesn’t matter whether or not I believe him because he’ll believe in me for the both of us.

I glance away so he can’t see the vulnerability etched into my frown. It’s difficult for me to talk about my deepest worries, mostly because it’s emotionally draining, ruminating on the hardest things about my life, but Wyatt’s a judgment-free zone, so my guard falls.

“No matter how hard I train, I can’t even last eight seconds on these more aggressive bulls, but sure, I’m doing just fine.”

Rough fingertips brush my chin, and he turns my head, forcing me to look at him. “Do you love bull riding?” he murmurs, staring at me like he sees something I can’t.

I clench my margarita tighter, needing something to hold onto. “Yes. I love everything about it—the thrill, the adrenaline rush, everything. It’s terrifying but addicting.”

He smiles like he expected me to say that, and his thumb climbs up to the inner crease in my elbow. He lightly digs his thumbnail into my skin. It’s a gentle, innocent touch, but it makes me all too aware of the mere inch of space thrumming between our bodies.

“Can you imagine doing anything else with your life?” His question pulls me back to the conversation.

I don’t even need to think about my answer. “No. Even when it’s hard, there’s nothing I’d rather do.”

He lightly pinches my skin, and another zap ricochets to my core. “Then you’ll never be a failure. No one can call you a failure if you’re doing what you love.”

I hold his gaze, and he holds onto mine.

“But what if I’m really not cut out for this?” I whisper my deepest fear, all those doubts floating to the top of my worries.

“You are,” he says, almost ferociously. “Don’t let Brodie’s opinion drag you down. Listen to the people who’ve got your back. It might take you longer, but you’ll get there.”