Page 3 of September's Bad Boy: Cooper
“Never said it was. But maybe it’s time you stop punishing yourself and start living.”
I don’t respond. I can’t. Not with my pulse still hammering from that kiss.
As I push the Merc’s door open and step back into the bright afternoon sun, the weight of Mustang Mountain presses down on me. But this time, it’s not just the past dragging me under.
It’s hope. And that’s a hell of a lot scarier.
CHAPTER 2
RILEY
I haven't seen him since the kiss.
It’s only been a few days, but my mind keeps looping the moment like a scene on a projector reel. That flash of heat. His lips. The way time folded in on itself and nothing else mattered but the space between us. I’d acted on pure instinct, with no hesitation. Something I haven’t done in years.
Talking to myself, I grumble, “You couldn’t have picked a worse time, Coop. I have grant applications due for the town council and the library board, and now I have to deal with this too?” I mutter, pushing my laptop closed.
I try to clear my head of all things Cooper as I get ready to head into town and run some errands.
Now, standing in front of Nelson’s Mercantile, the weight of that kiss presses on me. My lips still tingle when I think about it. I run my fingers along the strap of my canvas bag, trying to shake it off. I’m here for groceries. Errands. Not... not him.
But Mustang Mountain has a habit of putting people in your path right when you're not ready to see them.
It’s hot out, late summer clinging on like a stubborn habit, and my tank top sticks to my spine under my flannel. The air conditioning hits me in a rush as the bell above the door jingles. It smells of coffee and pine cleaner inside. The comfort of familiarity and home. I let out a breath and walk down the aisles.
I’m juggling a list in my head—bread, granola, coffee—and trying to remember if I promised to bring lemon bars to Kinley’s dinner later. I’m halfway through mentally reviewing whether I have enough eggs when I round the corner near the produce section.
And I see him.
Cooper Montgomery.
He’s standing by the shelf of canned tomatoes, holding a flyer in one hand and a box of tea in the other, and still somehow, he’s the reason my heart’s lodged in my throat. Like he didn’t completely disarm me with a single look just a few days ago. He’s wearing the same dark shirt stretched across his shoulders, work-worn jeans, and boots.
My breath catches. Even though I don’t move, he sees me.
Our eyes collide, and heat jolts through me.
I step back instinctively, and my foot catches on the edge of a wooden crate full of peaches. The basket in my hand tips. Fruit goes flying, and I yelp as my balance pitches forward.
Strong hands catch me before I hit the floor.
One arm braces around my waist, pulling me against a broad chest. The other cups my elbow, steady and firm. I’m not falling anymore, but I’m not standing either.
I’m caught. Again.
His scent hits me—clean soap, cedar, a hint of leather—and the world stops spinning. For a full breath, we don’t move. I feel his heart beating under my palms. Fast. Or maybe that’s mine.
"You okay?" he murmurs.
His voice is soft but gruff, like he’s trying not to startle me. I nod, barely breathing, cheeks blazing. Forcing myself to take a step back, I feel the heat crawling up my neck.
"Yeah. Sorry," I say, voice too high. "I wasn’t looking."
He lifts a brow, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Yeah, I noticed."
There’s tension in the air, taut and fragile. Like the moment before a thunderstorm.
When we both kneel to pick up the peaches, our hands brush, and the spark that follows is instant and causes my stomach to flip. I can’t shake the memory of the kiss, how it unfolded with the force of fate—inevitable, undeniable. The way he didn’t lean in with expectation. Just... let me take the lead.
