Page 38 of My Cowboy Trouble
"I don't dance."
"You used to."
"That was before."
"Before what? Before you decided that wanting something was weakness?" He signals the bartender for another round. "Your dad wouldn't want this for you."
"Don't."
"Someone needs to. You're thirty-two, Trent, not dead. And that woman out there? She wants you. Hell,she wants all of us, which should be complicated but somehow isn't."
"It is complicated."
"Only if we make it complicated." He pushes a fresh beer toward me. "Clara Mae was right. We're a package deal. Always have been. Maybe it's time to stop fighting it."
Out on the dance floor, Gavin's got Kenzie in a low dip, her hair nearly touching the floor, her laugh bright as bells. When he pulls her up, she's flushed and breathless and gorgeous.
"Fuck it," I mutter, downing half the beer in one go.
I cross the dance floor, ignoring the surprised looks. Trent Mercer doesn't dance. Hasn't in eight years. This is practically front-page news.
"Mind if I cut in?"
Gavin grins like he's won something. "About time." He passes Kenzie's hand to mine. "Try not to break her."
"I'm not breakable," Kenzie protests.
"We'll see about that," I say, pulling her close.
She fits against me perfectly, which is a problem. Everything about her is a problem—the way she smells, the way she feels, the way she looks up at me like I'm something more than a broken cowboy holding onto a failing ranch.
"You came," she says softly. "To the rodeo. You came."
"You mentioned that already."
"It bears repeating." Her hand tightens on my shoulder. "Why?"
"Someone had to make sure you didn't kill yourself on that horse."
"Liar."
"I don't lie."
"Everyone lies." She steps closer, our bodies aligned from chest to thigh. "But your tells are showing."
"I don't have tells."
"You do. Your jaw tightens when you're fighting something. Your hands flex when you want to touch but won't let yourself. And right now?" She leans up, her breath warm against my ear. "Right now, you're doing both."
I look down at my free hand. It's clenched at my side.
"This is a bad idea," I say for what feels like the hundredth time today.
"The worst," she agrees, but she's pressing closer, not pulling away.
The song ends, but we don't move. Another starts—something slow and sultry—and I keep dancing with her because stopping means thinking, and thinking means remembering why I can't have this.
"Trent?"
