Page 103 of Dirty Cowboy

I let out a breath, shifting slightly to ease the throbbing in my ankle. "I wasn’t even thinking about her."

Not entirely true. But right now, the sharp, pulsing pain shooting up my leg is a bigger concern than Caroline’s existence.

He side-eyes me, his lips twitching at the corners. "Whatareyou thinking about?"

"I miss having a dog," I say, mostly to distract myself.

Eric arches a brow. "Are you telling me a dog would make this night better?"

“A dog makeseverythingbetter.” I laugh, despite myself. "Barring that, I’m sureyou’llfind a way."

The truck rolls along the quiet country road, the canopy of stars stretching endlessly above us, lower and brighter than in New York. Out here, the night feels vast, wrapping around us in a stillness that makes everything—pain, exhaustion, Caroline—seem small.

Suzy rumbles to a stop in front of Eric’s house, the warm glow of the porch light casting soft shadows over the driveway. Eric hops out first, rounding the truck before I can even reach for the handle. He pulls the door open and leans in, his arms strong and steady as he helps me slide out.

"You’re getting good at this whole rescue thing," I tease, draping my arms around his neck as he lifts me effortlessly into his arms.

He grins. "Not my first rodeo, sweetheart."

The heat of his body seeps into mine as he carries me up the porch steps, the scent of leather and firewood clinging to him. At the door, he shifts me slightly, balancing my weight with one arm while unlocking the door. The keys jangle softly in the night.

"You locked up this time?" I murmur.

His gaze flickers to mine, something unreadable in his expression. "Thought I should. Harvest Fest is tomorrow."

I study his face in the dim porch light. "Because of Huntz?"

His hand slides gently over my hair, resting on my shoulder. "No," he says, voice steady. "Because I want you to feel safe."

Something in my chest tightens at that.

The door swings open, and warmth spills over us. The rich scent of pine, and the faint trace of a fire has long burned down. He carries me inside, straight to the couch, lowering me gently before slipping off my coat and hanging it by the door. His movements are careful, and precise, like he’s handling something fragile.

"Now," he says, crouching in front of me, "let me see that ankle."

"It’s just a little sprain," I downplay, but the moment he starts easing off my boot, fire shoots up my leg. I bite back a hiss, fingers gripping the couch cushion.

Eric frowns, his jaw tight. "This is worse than I thought."

I follow his gaze to my ankle. The swelling is bad, purpling at the edges, and a pang of disappointment settles deep in my chest. Tomorrow is Harvest Fest. Ishouldbe dancing with Eric under fairy lights, not hobbling around on a busted ankle.

"I’ll be right back," he murmurs, disappearing up the stairs.

I let out a shaky breath, my body sinking into the couch. The night turned my high hopes and playful competition to gut-wrenching disappointment. But as I glance around the cozy living room, something inside me settles. The fireplace, the scent of pine, the sound of Eric’s footsteps overhead, is not what I planned, but it’ssafe. And right now, that’s enough.

Eric returns with a t-shirt that makes me blink. It’s a faded navy blue with a cartoon cow in a cowboy hat riding a rocket, and the words“Yeehawdyssey: Space Ain’t Big Enough for My Boots”scrawled across the chest. He tosses me a pair of sweatpants, his smirk barely contained.

“You have an interesting collection of t-shirts.”

"I got this one in Texas three years ago," he explains.

I roll my eyes but let him help me change, shivering as the warmth of the fabric replaces the cold stiffness of my jeans.

He disappears into the kitchen, and moments later, the sharp scent of vinegar fills the air. He kneels in front of me again, soaking a bandage in the solution before carefully wrapping my ankle. His fingers are firm but gentle, his touch radiating a quiet patience that makes my chest ache.

I watch him in silence, studying the way his brow furrows in concentration, and the way his hands work with quiet efficiency. There are so many layers to Eric Waters, and I’ve barely begun to peel them back.

The kettle whistles, sharp and piercing. He rises smoothly, moving to the kitchen, and a few minutes later, he returns with two steaming mugs and a bottle of ibuprofen.

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