Page 81 of Roped in Rawhide
“How do you know them?”
My gaze moves between the nameless faces. “I don’t.”
The pieces click together and her eyes widen. “You want to crash their wedding?”
“We’re just borrowing their event—”
“Crashing their wedding,” she corrects.
“—to recreate the prom we never got to experience.”
Gemma’s expression melts like putty in my palm. “That’s very romantic.”
I stride ahead, turning to beckon her forward. “Dance with me?”
She nibbles on her bottom lip. “What if they catch us?”
My shoulders lift. “We’ll leave. Our dinner reservations are downstairs at eight-thirty. That gives us plenty of time for a few spins before anyone catches wind of us.”
Her sigh is a breezy surrender. “My ability to deny you has seemed to abandon ship.”
“That works heavily in my favor.”
She allows me to lead her to the portion of the rooftop plaza that’s been repurposed as a dance floor. The song is a soft acoustic rendition of “Can’t Help Falling in Love”, allowing me to pull her close. We sway as one while the tender notes serenade us. A few curious glances try to invade our personal bubble, but they’re easy enough to cast aside.
“I asked the prettiest girl to the prom and she said yes.” My voice croons in Gemma’s ear.
“It’s much better the second time around,” she whispers against my chest.
“Do you regret not going with your friends?”
Her eyes lift to meet mine. “Do you?”
When we were in high school, I wasn’t allowed to take Gemma as my date. The prom is for seniors and juniors only. It’s a stupid rule, which is why I chose to hang out with her in our meadow instead.
I shake my head, bumping our noses together. “I’ll never regret a single second I’ve spent with you.”
Her index finger finds mine, tucking them in a solitary embrace. “Thanks for this, Bronc. It’s very special.”
“Long overdue,” I reprimand myself.
Gemma’s smile is too forgiving. “Beats never at all.”
I press our bodies flush, refusing to have an inch of distance separating us. We dance to three more songs as if people haven’t started to stare. Just as the band announces a short intermission, a commotion erupts from near the bar. The bride—Mrs. Moreau, I presume—is causing the stir. She’s thrusting an accusatory arm directly at us. I step in front of Gemma, protecting her from whatever this other woman is about to say. But the bride’s glare skewers me like a trap set for a rodent. Her jaw drops when recognition strikes.
“What the fuck is Lucky Stride doing at my wedding?”
I cringe at the nickname that’s specific to those who follow me on the rodeo circuit. It’s obvious she’s a scorned buckle bunny.
“Awww,” Gemma croons. “How about that? You do know her.”
“That’s our cue. Prom is over, baby.” I fling her over my shoulder and make a hasty retreat to the exit.
She waves at the astonished guests behind us. “Congratulations to the happy couple. It was a gorgeous reception.”
“You better run, asshole!” Mrs. Moreau screeches.
“That hostility is uncalled for, but I get it. I was pissed at him too. But then he gave me the best dicking of my life. The orgasms have been nonstop ever since. All is forgiven. Enjoy your honeymoon!” She blows the bride a noisy kiss.
