Page 181 of Lost Then Found
I follow his gaze—and my whole body goes tight.
Aaron fucking Dixon.
Leaning over the table, elbow propped, that easy smile on his face like he doesn’t notice Lark’s spine has gone ramrod straight. Her arms are crossed, shoulders drawn in, and that smile she’s wearing? No teeth. Zero warmth.
Then she looks at me.
Eyes sharp. Direct. Asking without saying a word.
Get the hell over here.
I grab the drinks off the bar, jaw clenched hard enough it hurts, and head that way. There’s a slow, heavy pull in my chest with each step. Not anger exactly—just that low, cold feeling that comes with seeing something you care about handled wrong.
By the time I reach the table, Aaron’s still talking and I catch him mid-sentence.
“—and if you ever want a real ride, not one of those trail horses over at Wilding’s ranch, you just let me know. We break ‘em the old-fashioned way out at Tate’s. Come see ‘em if you’d like.”
He grins like he’s said something clever. Lark shifts, eyes flicking to me like she’s ready to tap out.
“Dixon,” I say, voice level, setting the drinks down on the table. His eyes cut to me, then back to her, calculating.
I step in a little closer. “Appreciate you keeping my girl company while I grabbed the drinks, but I can take it from here.”
He swallows, the bravado slipping just enough to satisfy me. He grabs his cowboy hat off the seat beside Lark and straightens. “Course. Didn’t mean to intrude.”
I nod once. “By the way, those ‘trail horses’ you’re talking about? Out-sold Tate’s the last decade and a half now. But I get it. Not everyone’s used to riding the best.”
His shoulders stiffen and he tips his hat once at Lark before disappearing back toward the dance floor.
I watch him walk off until he’s swallowed up by the crowd. Lark makes a sound, soft and amused, and when I look at her, she’s grinning.
“What?” I ask, still scowling.
She sips her lemon drop, eyes gleaming. “You. All demonic and possessive. It’s hot.”
That pulls a laugh out of me before I can stop it. I shake my head, sliding into the booth beside her.
Lark takes a sip of her drink, tilting her head just slightly when she swallows, and my eyes lock on the long line of her throat—the way it moves, the way her lips part just before, the way that tiny freckle at the base of her neck catches the light. The one I’ve kissed more times than I can count. The one I’ve bitten when she’s moaning my name, her hands all tangled up in my hair.
And now my brain’s gone to shit because all I can think about is her mouth. On me. Wrapped around me. Her eyes locked on mine like she’s daring me to fall apart for her.
My grip tightens around the glass in my hand, and I shift in my seat, forcing my body to chill the fuck out before I make a scene in the middle of the bar.
But it’s too late. I’m already hard.
If I stand up right now, it’s over. There’s no hiding a boner, not in these jeans.
So I start grasping at mental straws. Fast.
Think of something else, anything else—soggy cereal. Cold showers. Roadkill. That time I accidentally drank curdled milk straight from the jug because I was too tired to check the date.
Still doesn’t help.
Grandma’s feet in orthopedic sandals. That weird rash I got from lake water. A clogged sink full of wet food and hair—
Jesus. Pull it together.
None of it works. Because she shifts again, tucking one leg under theother, and now there’s evenlessskirt andmorethigh and I think I just blacked out a little.
