Page 6 of Eight Seconds

“This woman saved my life tonight,” Wilder announces from next to me, causing Rayna to regard him, eyebrows raised. She looks back at me.

“He’s being dramatic,” I say, then shrug my shoulders. “But not totally wrong.”

“I owe her a beer, at the very least.” Wilder stretches across the bar top toward Rayna, the flirty grin he gives women in the stands during his event firmly in place. “Can you make that happen, Ray?”

“If that’s what Charlotte wants, I suppose I can let one go missing tonight.” Rayna winks at me.

I give her a nod. I don’t particularly like beer, but I have a feeling Wilder won’t let it go. I’ll hold it long enough for Wilder to finish his, then head to bed. He can consider his debt to me paid, and I can still have an early night.

Wilder pops up on his hands, leaning across the bar that creaks and wobbles under his sudden assault, to smack a kiss on Rayna's cheek. She waves him off with the towel, turning to the cases in the coolers behind her for two long-neck bottles. She pops the tops and hands them across to us.

“On my tab?” Wilder asks. Rayna gives a dismissive wave of her fingers.

“You forget to close out again tonight and I’m adding a twenty percent tip this time.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Wilder touches a finger to the brim of his hat. “You deserve it anyway.”

“Don’t I know it,” Rayna mumbles as she moves down the bar to the next patron.

“Well, thanks for this.” I turn to Wilder, lifting the brown bottle. “Have a great night.”

There’s an empty barrel against one of the tent poles. It looks like the perfect perch to sit on for a while before I can find a way out of here. I make it about three steps before leather and sweet hay fill my nostrils again.

“Where are you going?” Wilder’s breath ghosts along the shell of my ear. I try to ignore the goosebumps breaking out along my arms under the gingham of my shirt.

“Just going to sit over here. Don’t let me cramp your style tonight.” I hop up on the flat top of the barrel, resting against the wooden post. It feels good to sit on something that isn’t moving. Instead of answering me, Wilder circles around until he leans against the post just off my shoulder. We both watch the crowd on the dance floor kick and step to an old Billy Ray Cyrus song. I cradle my cold beer between my knees.

Scanning the area, a few of the bull riders across the way wave to us. Wilder’s arm comes from behind me as he answers them. He stays quiet, just murmuring “ma’am” at regular intervals as women in painted-on jeans and tied-up flannel shirts wander by, calling to him. He’s turned down every request for a dance, and begins to fidget when a woman gets a little insistent. I don’t understand why, but I don’t like feeling as though I’m cramping his style. The looks a few buckle bunnies shoot me could flay lesser women alive; I just find it annoying.

“You really don’t have to stay here.” I finally sigh after another three songs, my head bobbing along to the tunes. The glass has lost its condensation after rolling it back and forth in my hands, and I still haven’t taken a drink. The few familiar faces have given tepid chin raises or head bobs in acknowledgment, but no one has bothered to approach me. I know how tight my returning smiles are, stretching thin across my lips as my brain turns over why I’m here again and again. I expect the heat at my back to disappear as I clearly am terrible at being around people.

“But the company is so pleasant,” Wilder deadpans.

I twist, finding Wilder closer than I thought. “You bought me a beer,” I lift the lukewarm bottle with a little shake, “your debt is paid.”

“Clearly, I tried to pay you with the wrong currency.” He takes the full drink from me, setting it on a nearby tabletop alongside his empty one, allowing some distance between us. I roll my eyes behind his back. He’s intolerable. The confidence and sureness pouring off him should send me running. I’ve been around cowboys like Wilder McCoy long enough to know they reach a level of invincibility that does nothing but breed trouble for themselves and everyone around them.

But just like before, the opportunity is there to leave. Walk away from him with a clear conscience and never bother speaking to him again.

But just like before, I don’t do what I should. Instead, I hop to my feet and crowd into his space when he turns around.

Wilder McCoy irritates the hell out of me.So then, why can’t I leave him alone?

Toe to toe, I look up into his eyes. The crystal-clear indigo is lit with amusement and curiosity as they stare back at me. The corner of his mouth hooks up in that secret little smile I’ve glimpsed tonight, churning a heated attraction in my belly.I really shouldn’t like that smile.

“So, how about this,” Wilder begins, snaking a strong arm around my waist, pulling me against him before I can find my feet. “Dance with me—just one—and we’ll call it even.”

“I—”

“Don’t tell me you don’t want to.” Wilder backs me toward the dance floor, the stirrings of a familiar slow two-step song starting. His other arm guides my hand up his arm, encouraging me to hold on as he seamlessly sweeps us into the audience that has slowed and now moves in a soft intimacy reflected by the romantic lyrics. “I’ve watched you sway and sing under your breath for the last ten minutes, your eyes never leaving this crowd.”

I grip his shirt tighter in one hand as he wraps my other behind his neck before gathering me as close as he can. It’s pushy. Demanding. But my feet fall in time, automatically stepping back with the beat, and I know Wilder would let me go the second I protest. I’m not surehowI know that; maybe the softness at the corner of his eyes or the return of the secret smile. Being this close, wrapped in the warm leather and sweet hay rolling off him with each shuffle we take, it’s impossible to want to break out of his hold. I find myself really looking at him as my hand relaxes against his arm. There’s a tiny scar bisecting his left eyebrow. It’s only noticeable in this proximity, but I find myself wondering about its origin, which has me falling even closer to the man who wears it. I don’t notice when my fingers begin brushing the bottom of his hair at the base of his neck.

“There we go,” Wilder breathes between us. His voice is thick and gravelly in the quiet space. It’s somehow both soothing and reassuring. I let out a sigh that’s equal parts irritation at his arrogance and a thinly veiled heated reaction to his words before trying to cover it with a glare. His smile widens. “It’s just one dance, Charlie.”

4

WILDER

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