Page 22 of Ride Me Cowboy

I pull a face. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had fun.” I’m speaking without thinking. Saying whatever pops into my head. I can recognize it, but I don’t seem able to stop.

“Oh yeah?”

I nod slowly.Get out of here, girl.“I should go,” I repeat.

“You said that.” His grin makes my knees knock.

“Yeah.” I nod, and start to move.

“Beth.” His hand snakes out and wraps around my wrist. I jump halfway out of my skin, but not because of Christopher. This is all because of Cole, and the way he makes me feel. “You ain’t driving.”

I stare up at him, his words not computing.

“I’ll take you home.”

Home.The word almost threatens to bring tears to my eyes.

“I’m okay,” I lie. I’m definitely not okay. I wouldneverget behind the wheel after having the better part of a bottle of wine. In the city, I have a driver. This is not something I usually need to think about.

“I—,”

He presses a finger to my lips, silencing me, and my heart rams so hard against my ribs I think it’s going to bounce right out and start honky tonking with the rest of the bar.

“Let’s get you home.” He says it again—just a throwaway line—without realizing that having a home is something he takes for granted and I really don’t.

I nod quickly, ignoring the threat of tears, spinning quickly so that if my eyes mist over he won’t see. But the whole bar spins with me and I think I might have fallen over if Cole hadn’t wrapped a strong, muscled arm around my waist and pulled me close to his side, supporting my whole body as we make our way through the bar and to the wide saloon style doors.

“I’m okay,” I repeat, at some point, but he keeps his arm wrapped around me all the way to his pickup.

“My car…”

“Give me your keys. I’ll drive it back later.”

I frown. “But your car,” I say, trying to work out the logistics with a brain that’s not firing on all cylinders. He uses his free hand to open the front passenger door.

“Caleb’ll drive it.” He rearranges himself so he can help me into the front passenger seat. It’s help I don’t strictly need—I hope—but I can’t find the words to tell him that when his big, hulking body is leaning over me and somehow, despite his hugeness, being so gentle with me, so tender, as he makes sure I’m sitting in properly then fastens the belt across my middle. I hold my breath, my eyes locked to his face, those long, dark lashes fanning his cheekbones, a hint of freckles across the bridge of his nose that I haven’t noticed before because we’ve never been this close. I feel like I’m right in the heart of an electrical storm, with lightning sizzling all around us.

He shuts the door, and I jump a little at the suddenness of the sound and the way it bursts through my thoughts. A second later, he’s folding his bulky frame into the driver side—a hatchback Prius isn’t exactly built for a guy like Cole, and I stifle a laugh at the sight of him: a bit like a clown in a clown car—as he starts the engine and throws me a look.

It's a look that immediately turns my tummy into knots and flattens the smile.

A look that’s unimpressed.

Angry?

I straighten, my heart lurching into my throat, and all thoughts of safety fly out the window. “Are you mad at me?” I ask, hands clasped in my lap to hide the way they’re trembling.

Midway through reversing out of the park, he stops and turns back to me. “What?”

“I’m sorry. About tonight. The wine just went…”

He shakes his head. “I’m not mad at you, Beth.”

He doesn’t sound mad, but he soundssomething.“But you’re…what? What are you?”

He starts backing the car out again, focused on driving. It’s about ten minutes to the ranch. I keep looking at him as he points the car in the right direction and begins to accelerate.

“Cole?”