Page 4 of For Cowgirls and Kings (The Trauma Bonded #2)

“Holy shit, what do you feed him?” Tut’s on his back in Mateo’s giant arms, and I silently wish I could trade places with the fat cat. Setting the roller down, I motion for Mateo to hand me him. Surprising me, he backs up, his eyebrows in a deep V. “No way, we’re bonding.”

I blink rapidly, trying to reconcile the ovary bursting image in front of me. “You like cats?”

He shrugs. “Not especially. But I’ve never been allowed to have one, so who knows. Besides, if he’s the love of your life, I suppose I better get to know him.”

There’s so much in that sentence that I simply don’t know how to digest. The biggest being the implication that Mateo will be seeing Tut more, which makes zero sense.

“Are you going to feed the poor guy, or do you want to point me in the direction of his food? Can’t you see he’s withering away?

” His voice takes on a light crooning sound, and I have to physically grip the counter top to keep from falling over.

Tut’s enormous tail flicks back and forth, his amber eyes staring up at the man cradling him.

He’s instantly in love, and I don’t blame him.

“Told you he was into boys,” I huff, and reach into the cupboard to pull out a can of his wet food.

I feel Mateo step closer before I hear him, and I focus on my hands instead of the heat enveloping my back.

“And how many boys has sweet Tut met?”

My hand hovers above the counter, mind racing. Did he just ask me how many guys I’ve had over at my house?

“Oh all the boys.” I resume my task of getting Tut food, and smile. If he wants to be nosy, I can play that game too.

Except it’s a fucking mistake. Because before I can scoop the food into his bowl, a large hand roughly grips my hip, sending a bolt of electricity to race through me. I drop the can and spoon, both clattering to the green tile countertop.

“Dale, don’t tease me. It’s not nice.” Mateo gently whispers the words, but there’s violence laced in each one.

Violence I should be afraid of, considering who he is to the rest of the world, but they only piss me off.

We’ve been friends too fucking long for me to care about what he could do to me with all his power.

He wouldn’t fucking dare.

His grip tightens a fraction, and I hold my breath, before he releases me, stomping out of the kitchen.

“Queen Tut is hungry,” he calls, and I hear a pleading meow accompany the words.

With shaky hands, I finish doling out the wet food and carry it into the other room.

Mateo’s body consumes most of my velvety purple couch, his shoulders expanding over half the size of the scrolled backing.

Queen Tut jumps down from his place on Mateo’s lap and jogs over, his primordial pouch swishing.

I pet his head, hoping to gather some semblance of calm from him as I try to sort through my jumbled thoughts, and then stand up.

“What do you like on your pizza?” Mateo doesn’t look up from his phone and I just stare at him.

“Do you even know how to order a pizza? Don’t you have like a butler that does that for you or something?”

“I think I can figure it out.” I don’t know if he’s kidding or not, but he looks a genuine mix of frustration and hurt and whatever harsh words I might have uttered die on my tongue.

“Ham and pineapple,” I state, folding myself into the plush green velvet recliner across from him . I ignore the fact that his eyes dart over the space next to him, and back at me, his scowl deepening just a fraction.

“Of course you’d like weird fucking shit on your pizza.”

He doesn’t know he’s the only man I’ve ordered a late night pizza with, or the only man who’s ever been in my house—the only other man who’s met Queen Tut, ever.

And I plan to keep it that way.

If he knew those things, I think he’d stop scowling at me, and then I’d get really confused about what we’re doing.

“Are you going to order it or do you need me to?” I settle further into the chair, a motion Mateo doesn’t miss. And his shoulders fall, whatever fight leaving his body.

“Do I just call the bar or what?” He’s actually confused and that makes me smile.

“Fine, I’ll do it.” I wink at him, “What would you like on your pizza, your highness?”

“Fucking smartass.” But he’s smiling at me, and I hate that I’m already thinking of more ways to keep that smile on his face.

“Tell you what, you win at a dance battle and I’ll order whatever you want on the pizza. If I win, you’ll not only have to fumble ordering the thing, but you’ll order what I want on it, and you’ll have to talk in a British accent.”

His eyebrows raise so high they disappear into his hair. “I think I’m being fucked either way.”

I climb out of the chair, my hair falling over my face, because picturing him “getting fucked” , especially if I was the one doing it, makes my face burn.

“Come on, your highness.” I bow, folding at the waist in front of him, and he snorts.

“Stop calling me that.”

I stand up, and cock a brow. “Your kingliness?”

“You should be curtsying anyways. Girls don’t bow.”

I slap at his knee. “Oh my apologies, your high kingliness.” He groans, swiping a giant hand over his face, and I turn around, sauntering back to my phone sitting on the arm rest.

“What are you making me dance to?”

“Weighing your options?” I scroll through a playlist until I find the song I’m looking for, and then giggle. This is one of the more ridiculous ideas I’ve ever had, but now that it’s formed, I have to see it through. I will see Mateo dance to this song, and it will be the greatest day of my life.

“Contemplating if a bullet to the brain would be better.”

“Come on—” I hit play, and turn to him, already nodding my head to the classical beginning chords of my favorite song.

The start is slow, and I can see the wheels turning in Mateo’s beautiful brain.

Before the song has had a chance to build, he’s up, shuffling toward me, a mix of discomfort, disbelief, and something akin to giddiness on his face.

And then the chorus breaks—I begin singing the lyrics, twirling, my long hair swishing like a black cape around us.

Chappell Roans famous lyrics about pink ponies and dancing fill the tiny space, and I laugh at the sheer oddity of it all.

Mateo remains frozen, and I dance around his stoak figure, belting the words above Chappell’s incredible voice, the lyrics like scripture in my heart.

I could sing it in my sleep, but it’s not your traditional song, and I know I’ve caught Mateo even more off guard.

I laugh, the sound so full of joy it makes my own heart ache.

How long has it been since I’ve allowed myself to be this silly? To let my guard down enough to feel this safe with another person?

I grab his hands, swaying my body and bouncing around him.

I laugh again, tipping my head back and when I look up at him, his face is split into the most breathtaking smile.

He shakes his head, and then shocking the actual fuck out of me, he starts to tug back and forth on my arms, slightly twisting his hips—a more refined version of my chaos, but dancing with me all the same.

I don’t spend another second thinking about it. I let myself enjoy it, enjoy him and his smile, and his giant body, rippling with muscles as he shakes his hips.

Chappell Roan—you delicious devil, you—you can make even a king smile with your lyrics.