Page 11 of Curvy Girl and the Grumpy Cowboy

Cole's eyes drift over my shoulder, and his expression shifts. "He's been watching you all night, you know."

I don't have to ask who he means. "Has he?"

"Like a man who's dying of thirst watching the last drop of water." Cole's voice is gentle. "He told me he's never been surer of anything."

My heart stutters. "What does that mean?"

"I think you know." Cole squeezes my arm. "Just... be careful. Both of you."

As Cole walks away, I turn to find Jackson approaching, determination written in every line of his body. The crowd seems to part for him, or maybe it's just that I can't see anyone else.

"Dance with me," he says when he reaches me.

Not a question—a quiet statement of intent.

I should say no. Should keep my distance, protect my heart from this man who once chose his land over our love. But the band is playing a slow, sweet melody, and Jackson Covington is looking at me like I'm the answer to a question he's been asking for seven years.

"Okay," I whisper.

He takes my hand, leading me to the dance floor where a few other couples already sway. His palm is warm against my back as he draws me closer, maintaining just enough distance to be proper while still close enough that I can catch the scent of his aftershave.

"I should warn you," I say, looking up at him, "I've gotten better at dancing since the last time."

The corner of his mouth quirks up. "That barn dance where I stepped on your toes three times?"

"Four," I correct, surprised he remembers. "And then you blamed your boots."

"Those were new boots," he defends himself, but his eyes crinkle with humor. "Cost me a month's wages."

We move together with surprising ease, as if our bodies remember each other's rhythm despite the years between us. Around us, the community hall glows with string lights, conversations hum beneath the music, and occasionally someone laughs—but it all feels peripheral, background noise to the electricity passing between us.

"You've been busy at the auction tables," I observe, nodding toward where he'd been writing on bid sheets earlier.

"Just supporting a good cause."

"Mmm. And which items caught your eye?"

His hand tightens slightly at my waist. "The trail ride package. The custom tack from Miller's Saddlery. The year of free vet services from Doc Walker."

I raise an eyebrow. "Those are the three most expensive items."

"Are they?" he asks innocently, but there's nothing innocent about the way he's looking at me.

"Jackson Covington," I say softly, "are you trying to single-handedly fund my therapy center?"

"Would that be so terrible?"

I study his face—the lines at the corners of his eyes deeper than I remember, the stubborn set of his jaw the same as always.

"Why?" I ask finally.

He doesn't pretend to misunderstand. "Because it matters to you. Because what you're building is important." His voice drops lower. "Because I should have supported your dreams seven years ago."

My heart thuds painfully against my ribs. "One fundraiser doesn't make up for that."

"I know." His gaze is steady, unwavering. "Consider it a first step."

The band transitions smoothly into another slow song, and we continue dancing without missing a beat.

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