Page 8 of Bringing Home A Cowboy
“Nope.”
“Oh.” I swallow a giggle that bubbles up anyway. “This’ll be … fun.”
His eyes narrow in mock suspicion. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Maybe a little.”
When we finally board the flight a few days later, the comedy writes itself. He stares at the metal detector like it’s a trap, calls the TSA scanner a “fancy cattle chute,” and tips his cowboy hat to the flight attendant like she’s royalty.
By the time the plane starts taxiing, he grips the armrest so hard his knuckles go white. “Feels unnatural,” he mutters.
I grin. “You’re doing great, cowboy.”
He cuts me a side look. “You city people pay money to do this on purpose?”
“Every day.”
When the plane lifts off, his jaw tightens. But then the window view catches him. The mountains fading to silver, the clouds spreading like a blanket below us. He leans in, eyes wide with something close to wonder.
“Guess it’s not all bad,” he admits quietly.
“Not bad at all,” I agree.
By the time we land, I’m already bracing for impact — the family kind. Manhattan greets us with taxis blaring, lights flashing, and my faux cowboy husband holding his hat like it might blow away. He turns one slow circle on the sidewalk, taking in the skyline.
“Tallest glass and steel mountains I ever saw,” he says under his breath.
I laugh, tension easing for the first time all day. “Welcome to New York, Mr. Callahan.”
He looks down at me, grinning for real now. “Reckon I’ll survive if I stay close to you.”
By the time we collect our luggage and fight through the chaos at baggage claim, the afternoon’s already slipping toward dusk. The city looks different when the lights start coming on. It’s bigger, louder, and more alive.
The cab driver honks before we’ve even shut the door. James hesitates, one boot on the curb, frowning at the rush of horns and motion.
“They’re all in a hurry to get somewhere,” he mutters. “Don’t reckon any of ’em knows where that is.”
I laugh and tug him in. “Welcome to Midtown.”
He ducks into the back seat, hat in his lap, fringe on his black suede jacket brushing against my coat. The driver jerks into traffic like we’ve entered a demolition derby. James braces one hand on the window and grabs the door handle with the other.
“Good Lord,” he says under his breath. “Back home, if a man drove like this, we’d pull him over for reckless endangerment of livestock.”
I bite back a grin. “Different kind of herd.”
Outside, lights blur past in streaks of gold and red. People pour across intersections like schools of fish. James watches it all, eyes narrowing in disbelief.
“There’s more folks on this one street than in our whole county,” he says. “You sure they ain’t all late for the same meeting?”
“Pretty sure.”
When we lurch to the curb outside my building, he steps out carefully, setting his hat back on his head like armor. The doorman gives him a once-over—boots, fringe, and all. James tips his hat and nods politely, unfazed.
Upstairs, I unlock my apartment. The door swings open on six hundred square feet of over-priced Manhattan efficiency. It holds one couch, one kitchenette, one teeny tiny bedroom, and one window pretending to be a view.
James stops in the doorway and silently looks around.
“Well,” he says finally, “it’s … compact.”
