Page 145 of Knotting the Cowboys

"Restaurant we passed is closed by now, but there's this ice cream whisky bar that has the best chicken wings. If you're up for it?"

"Chicken wings?" The words come out almost reverent, and I peek at him through my fingers. "I don't even remember the last time I had actual wings."

"Then we're going." He's already reaching for the ignition, decision made. "Fair warning though—they're messy. Hope you don't mind getting your fingers dirty."

"Are you kidding? Eating wings with a fork and knife is..." I search for the right word, "diabolical. Absolutely diabolical. Some kind of crime against food."

He actually cringes at the thought, whole body shuddering.

"Who even does that?" Then he catches himself, rolling his eyes. "Never mind. We're not acknowledging that as a possibility. We ain't doing that shit, period."

I laugh again—when did I become someone who laughs so easily?—and start to shift upright. His arm tightens around my shoulders, keeping me in place.

"Rest a bit more," he says, starting the engine with his free hand. "Place is a little ways out. Twenty minutes, maybe."

"As long as you don't let me sleep for eternity," I bargain, already settling back against him. It's too easy, this surrender to comfort. Too tempting to just exist in this bubble where I'm allowed to be tired and taken care of.

"Deal." His thumb traces a pattern on my shoulder through the silk dress, and I close my eyes, not to sleep but just to feel. To memorize this moment of simple kindness, of being held without expectation or demand.

Twenty minutes.

I can give myself twenty more minutes of this before reality intrudes again. Twenty minutes of pretending this is my life now—men who play Candy Crush and declare me worth any budget, who let me drool on their shirts and feed me chicken wings. Who hold me like I'm precious instead of problematic.

Maybe I'm still dreaming. But if I am, I don't want to wake up just yet.

The giggle escapes before I can stop it, high and bright and absolutely ridiculous.

Everything seems hilarious right now—the way the bar lights fracture into starbursts, how Mavi's eyebrow does that thing where it climbs toward his hairline, the fact that I just knocked back my third shot like it was apple juice instead of something that tastes like smoke and bad decisions.

"Handle alcohol my ass." Mavi shakes his head, but I can see him fighting amusement. His eyes track my movements like I might topple off the barstool at any moment, which is insulting and probably accurate. "You said you could pace yourself."

"I totally can!" I insist, then have to grab the bar when the world tilts slightly. "And you're just jealous because I ate your ice cream fair and square."

"Fair and square?" He leans back, arms crossing over his chest in a way that makes his shirt stretch interesting across his shoulders. Not that I'm noticing. Much. "You cheated."

"How?" I demand, offended on behalf of my definitely-legitimate ice cream victory. "How does one cheat at ice cream bets?"

He points an accusing finger at my face.

"You gave me those damn puppy eyes. One look and it was over. Completely unfair advantage."

The information settles into my tipsy brain like a gift.

"Awww," I draw out the word, batting my lashes dramatically. "My eyes are your weakness? Interesting."

He groans, dropping his head into his hands.

"I should not have told you that."

"Too late! Information absorbed and filed away for future use." I tap my temple, nearly poking myself in the eye. "Strategic intelligence gathered."

"You're a menace," he mutters, but he's smiling as he slides cash across the bar. More cash than necessary, I notice, even through my pleasant whisky haze.

The bartender—a mountain of a man with kind eyes and salt-and-pepper beard—grins as he collects the bills.

"You two need anything else? Water for the lady, maybe?"

"Water's for quitters," I announce, then immediately reconsider. "Actually, water sounds nice. Room temperature though. Not cold. Cold water is aggressive."

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