Page 120 of Knotting the Cowboys

"Well," I say, aiming for casual despite the way my pulse picks up, "that's my hidden talent. I can ride anything as long as I need to."

The words hang in the air between us for a heartbeat before I realize what I've said. What it sounds like. Austin's eyes darken, pupils dilating, and he leans in close enough that I can smell the mix of his cologne and honest sweat from dancing.

"Anything, huh?" His voice drops to that register that makes my stomach flip, all teasing warmth with an edge of something hungrier.

Heat floods my cheeks, and I know he can see the blush even in the parking lot's sodium lights. My brain scrambles for a witty comeback, something to deflect from the very obvious direction this conversation has taken, but all I manage is a strangled sound that might be agreement.

"Good to know," he murmurs, and the promise in those three words makes my thighs clench involuntarily.

"It's—" I have to clear my throat, try again. "It's two in the morning. We should get back. Luna?—"

"Is sound asleep with Cole and Mavi watching over her like guardian dragons." But he steps back, giving me space to breathe, though his hand finds mine as we walk toward his truck. "Still. You're right. Should get you home before you turn into a pumpkin."

"Wrong fairy tale," I manage, grateful for the shift back to safer ground. "And I think it was the carriage that turned into a pumpkin, not Cinderella."

"Same difference." He opens the passenger door with a flourish, steadying me as I navigate the high step in heels that have definitely seen better days. "Either way, gotta get you back before the magic wears off."

"Magic?" I settle into the seat, very aware of how the dress rides up when I sit. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"What would you call it?" He leans against the door frame, silhouetted against the fairground lights, and for a moment I forget how to breathe. Because he's beautiful like this—disheveled and happy and looking at me like I'm something precious.

"The best night I've had in years," I admit softly.

Something shifts in his expression, goes tender in a way that makes my chest ache. He reaches out, thumbs brushing over my cheekbones like he's checking I'm real, then steps back to close the door. I watch him round the hood, noticing the way other people in the parking lot track his movement. Even sweaty and wrinkled, Austin Bishop turns heads. But he only has eyes for me as he slides into the driver's seat, and that focused attention makes me squirm.

"So," he says as the engine rumbles to life, "scale of one to ten, how much do you hate me for calling you 'granny' earlier?"

"Granny?" I gasp, playing up my horror even though we both know I'm not really mad. "GRANNY? Did you see these legs?"

"Yeah," he shoots back, grinning as he navigates out of the packed parking lot. "Saw 'em trembling on the dance floor. Shaking like a newborn colt's."

"That was exhaustion from carrying your two left feet through every song!" I smack his shoulder, careful not to actually distract him from driving. "I've seen toddlers with better rhythm."

"Toddlers who've had professional dance lessons maybe." He's laughing now, the sound filling the cab of the truck like warm honey. "Face it, James, you were hanging on by a thread during that last Texas Two-Step."

"I was not!"

"You stepped on my foot three times."

"That was strategic foot placement."

"Strategic?"

"Absolutely. Had to make sure you stayed in line somehow." I cross my arms, trying for haughty despite the smile tugging at my lips. "Can't have you getting too confident. Next thing you know, you'll be entering every competition in the state."

"With you as my partner?" He glances over, something soft and dangerous in his eyes. "I'd enter every competition in the country."

The easy banter stutters to a halt, replaced by awareness that fills the truck cab like smoke. I'm suddenly conscious of every point of contact—where my bare thigh presses against the leather seat, where his hand rests on the gear shift inches from my knee, where the air conditioning whispers across my overheated skin.

"Austin," I start, not sure what I'm going to say, just knowing the weight of this moment needs... something.

But before I can finish, the check engine light flickers on—innocent yellow at first, then angry red.

A grinding sound comes from somewhere in the engine, mechanical and wrong, and Austin's face shifts from soft to concerned in an instant.

"Shit," he mutters, already easing off the gas and scanning for a safe place to pull over. "Ugh, please don’t tell me it’s what I think it is?"

"What's wrong?" Though the grinding noise getting louder rather answers that question.

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