Page 86 of My Cowboy Trouble
"I can take care of myself," Kenzie says, but her voice is quiet, careful. Like she can sense the tension crackling between Gavin and me and doesn't want to be the one to set it off.
"Of course you can," Gavin says, never taking his eyes off me. "But that doesn't mean you should have to. A woman like you deserves to be taken care of. Protected. Cherished." He pauses, his grin turning wicked. "Right, boss?"
There's that word again, but this time, it's coming from Gavin, and the way he says it is pure provocation. Like he knows exactly what it does to me when Kenzie says it, and he's throwing it in my face.
"The cattle need moving," I say, because it's safer than what I really want to say. Which is that if he touches her again, if he puts her in danger again, I'm going to break his pretty face.
"They do," Gavin agrees, remounting Whiskey with fluid grace. "Good thing we've got all day. Plenty of time for work and play."
"This isn't a game, Gavin."
"Isn't it?" His grin widens, and there's something almost predatory in it now. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like we're all playing. Question is, who's winning?"
I look at Kenzie, who's watching our exchange with an expression I can't read. She looks like she wants to say something, but she's holding back. Waiting to see what happens next.
What happens next is that I'm going to lose my goddamn mind if I have to stand here much longer watching Gavin stake his claim while pretending everything's fine.
"Get to work," I say, turning away before I do something stupid. "Both of you."
But as I walk toward the cattle, I can hear them talking behind me. Low voices, easy laughter, the kind of casual intimacy that makes my jaw clench. And I know that no matter how many times I tell myself she's not mine, no matter how many logical reasons I have for walking away, I'm not going to be able to handle watching her with them much longer.
Something's going to give. And when it does, it's going to be messy.
By noon,I'm ready to murder someone. Preferably Gavin, who's spent the entire morning finding excuses to touch Kenzie. Helping her mount her horse. Adjusting her stirrups. Showing her the "proper" way to hold the reins, which apparently requires standing behind her with his arms around her like they're slow dancing instead of working cattle.
I've counted at least fifteen different moments where his hands were on her body, and each one feels like a knife between my ribs. A slow, deliberate torture designed to drive me out of my mind. And the worst part? He's doing it on purpose. Every time he touches her, he glances over at me with that knowing smirk, like he's daring me to do something about it.
The worst part is that she's letting him. Laughing athis jokes. Leaning into his touch. Acting like our time in the tack room never happened, just like I told her to. Just like I wanted her to.
Fuck me.
I'm realizing I lied. I don't want her to forget. I don't want her to move on. I want her to remember every second of what we shared, want it to haunt her the way it's haunting me.
I should be grateful. This is what I wanted, right? Distance. Pretending nothing happened. Getting back to normal.
But normal doesn't include watching another man's hands on the woman who was coming apart underneath me less than twenty-four hours ago. Normal doesn't include this burning jealousy that's making it hard to think, hard to breathe, hard to function like a rational human being.
"I need help with something in the tack room," I say when we break for lunch, my voice coming out rougher than intended.
Kenzie looks up from where she's sitting on a fallen log, sharing a sandwich with Gavin. They're sitting close, close enough that their thighs are touching, and she's stealing pickles off his plate like they've been doing this for years instead of days.
"What kind of help?" she asks, and there's something in her voice. Wariness, maybe. Or hope. I can't tell which.
"Bridle needs adjusting. Your hands are smaller." It'sa bullshit excuse and we both know it. I could adjust that bridle with my eyes closed, could probably do it in my sleep. But I need to get her alone, need to break up this cozy little scene before I do something stupid like drag Gavin off that log and show him exactly what I think of his wandering hands.
She nods anyway, dusting crumbs off her jeans as she stands. "Sure thing."
Gavin watches us go with knowing eyes, and for once, keeps his mouth shut. Maybe he recognizes the edge I'm walking, the barely leashed control that's threatening to snap at any moment. Maybe he can see the violence brewing just under the surface and knows better than to push.
Or maybe he's planning something. With Gavin, you never know.
The tack room smells like leather and yesterday—sex and desperation and all the things I'm trying not to think about. Kenzie seems to notice it too, because she hesitates at the threshold, her hand on the doorframe.
"Which bridle?" she asks, her voice carefully neutral.
"This one." I grab the first one I see, not because it needs adjusting but because I need something to do with my hands that isn't touching her. Because if I touch her right now, I'm not going to be able to stop.
She moves closer, and suddenly the air in the small room feels thick, charged with electricity. She smells like sunshine and horses and something uniquely her that makes my mouth water. The scent hits me like aphysical force, and I have to grip the bridle tighter to keep from reaching for her.
