Page 9 of Bolt To Me
Cory studied her for a long moment, and when he answered, his voice was low, almost rough. “Yeah. All the damn time.” He sipped his beer. “You’ve met my brothers. You’ve been here for cookouts.”
Her eyes lifted, meeting his across the flames. She wasn’t expecting that.
“My whole life’s been mapped out,” he said. “Be the charming Hayes boy. Run the ranch. Smooth things over when Jackson screws up. Make sure Caleb’s operating capital stays above a certain level. Run the numbers and never mess up too bad myself, just enough to keep people interested.” He gave a slight shake of his head, a wry smile tugging at his mouth.
“Luke always said you were the wild one,” she murmured.
He huffed out something like a laugh. “Luke said a lot of things.”
Her gaze drifted over the fire toward him again, the light catching in her eyes. “You know what he used to tell me?”
“What’s that?”
“‘Stay away from Cory Hayes.’” Her lips curved. “’My best friend is trouble wrapped in charm.’” She did a good imitation of Luke.
His answering smile was slow. “He wasn’t wrong.” Then he leaned forward, eyes steady on hers. “But I never would’ve hurt you, Carli. Even back then.”
The words seemed to settle somewhere deep inside her, warm and unsettling. “Why?”
“You were different,” he said simply. He glanced away, then back again, and there was something in his look that made her chest ache. “Still are.”
The fire cracked, sending a thin ribbon of sparks into the air. She felt suddenly, achingly aware of every inch of space between them, and of how easy it would be to close it. “I always thought,” she began, her voice quieter now, “that if I didn’t settle down, I’d end up alone. That’s what everyone told me. ‘Don’t be too stubborn, too bold, too opinionated. No man wants a woman who runs too wild.”
“They were wrong,” he said without hesitation, and there was no teasing in it this time.
She searched his face, wondering if he believed that, wondering if she could. “You say that now, but what happens when I’m not the runaway bride anymore? When I’m just… me?”
He stood, slow and unhurried, and came around the fire to her side. The smell of him hit her first: clean soap, warm skin, and faint leather, then the weight of his presence, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him. He crouched down beside her chair, his eyes locked on hers. “Then I’ll still want you,” he said, each word deliberate, almost like a vow.
Her breath caught, her heart thudding against her ribs so hard she was sure he could hear it.
His hand came up, fingers brushing lightly along the line of her jaw. It was the gentlest touch, but it carried a charge that shot straight through her. His thumb traced her cheekbone, his gaze dipping briefly to her mouth. She felt herself leaning in, her pulse roaring in her ears.
“I’m not gonna kiss you again unless you want it,” he murmured. “Not here. Not unless it means something.”
She could taste the moment between them, woodsmoke, beer, the faint sweetness of his breath. Her lips parted, but the words tangled in her throat. “I’m not ready,” she whispered finally. “But I’m not running, either.”
The corner of his mouth lifted, not in victory but in understanding. “That’s enough,” he said softly. “Besides, what would happen if Luke showed up out of the blue?” he teased, running his thumb over her lower lip. He didn’t move. His hand lingered against her jaw, his thumb brushing her skin like he couldn’t quite stop. Their faces stayed close enough that a single breath could have closed the gap, and for a moment, it felt like the world had tilted, like the stars themselves were leaning in to see if it would happen.
She thought, just for a heartbeat, that it would. That he would close the last inch, and she would let him. But the fire popped sharply, breaking the spell. She blinked, and he eased back just enough to let the cool air slide between them again. And still, neither of them could look away.
The Festival Kiss
The Willow Creek Bluebonnet Festival had a way of making the little town feel larger than life. Tonight, it was as if someone had taken the quiet, dusty main street and draped it in magic. Lanterns hung from the ancient pecan trees like captured stars, swaying in the warm spring breeze, spilling amber light across the town square. The hum of country music drifted from the stage, blending with the peal of children’s laughter and the occasional whoop from someone winning a prize at the ring toss. Somewhere, a fiddler was warming up, his bow skipping across the strings in a burst of cheerful notes. The air was thick with the perfume of kettle corn and BBQ, mingling with the faint sweetness of blooming bluebonnets and clover from the fields beyond.
Carli paused just inside the wooden arch that marked the festival gates, letting the tide of sound, scent, and light wash over her. It was almost dizzying, not in the bad way, not the way the past weeks had been, but in a way that made her lungs feel fullfor the first time in what felt like years. She stood there, boots planted in the soft grass, sundress brushing her knees, a faint sheen of warmth already clinging to her skin. No heels tonight. No strapless gown strangling her ribs. Just cotton, leather, and the comfortable freedom of moving like herself. She had told herself she wasn’t looking for him, but the truth was she’d been scanning the crowd since the moment she stepped through the gate. And then she saw him.
Cory Hayes leaned against the split-rail fence near the stage like he had been born to do exactly that. One boot hooked lazily over the other, thumbs tucked into the front pockets of his jeans. The glow from the nearby string lights hit the brim of his black cowboy hat just enough to throw part of his face in shadow, but it couldn’t hide the slow curve of his mouth when his eyes found hers. The easy way he smiled at her was dangerous. It was not the kind of danger that tried to charm on purpose, but the kind that slipped under your skin before you could stop it.
He pushed off the fence and started toward her with that steady, unhurried stride that made it seem like the whole festival had nowhere better to be than in his orbit. When he reached her, his eyes swept slowly, too slowly, over her bare shoulders, the curve of her dress, the boots she’d dug out from the back of her closet. “You clean up nice,” he drawled, voice pitched low enough that it felt like a private thing meant only for her, even with the festival bustling around them.
Carli tilted her head, pretending his gaze didn’t make her pulse stutter. “You say that to all the women you rescue from disastrous weddings?”
His grin widened, but a flicker of something softer and warmer appeared in his eyes. “Only the ones who haunt my thoughts after.”
Heat crept from her collarbone to the tips of her ears, and she took a small step to the side as if the movement might disguise it. “You ready for your first public outing since the scandal broke?” he asked, holding out a sweating paper cup of lemonade he must have bought before she arrived. She had been living in the guest house for a month now, and he wasn’t about to kick her out.
She took it, brushing his fingers in the process. “Let ’em talk.”
