Page 3 of His Big Hometown Cowboy (Bigger Is Best #1)
CHAPTER TWO
Tim
I’d tried on six shirts and hated all of them.
The pile on the bed grew as I ransacked my suitcase for the seventh time. What little I’d brought from San Francisco—mostly tech-bro casual or meeting-appropriate button-downs—felt completely wrong. None of it seemed right for... this. For him.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered, biting the inside of my cheek. “It’s just drinks with Wyatt.”
Except it wasn’t just anything. It was a date. With Wyatt Walker—the walking, talking embodiment of roughly eighty percent of my teenage fantasies.
The same guy who’d materialized at Brogan Creek this afternoon looking like he’d stepped out of a smoking hot ranch hand recruitment ad, all broad shoulders, sunbaked skin, and quiet, infuriating confidence.
God, he’d gotten even hotter. Was that even possible? Or fair?
My anxiety wasn’t about the clothes. It twisted deeper.
Was this just a curiosity for him, a way to scratch an itch with the conveniently returned kid brother? The thought sent a cold flicker through the nervous excitement.
No sleek SF bar demanding designer labels tonight, just... Wyatt. And that somehow felt infinitely more terrifying.
I yanked a gray henley over my head and squinted at my reflection in the mirror tacked to the back of the door. Not bad. Casual enough for a small-town bar, but the worn fabric clung just enough in the right places.
I rolled the sleeves to show a bit of forearm—a trick learned in SF boardrooms to project effortless competence—and forced myself to stop fussing.
The front door of the mobile home banged open, making me jump a foot.
“Tim?” Travis’s voice echoed down the short hallway. “You in here?”
“Bedroom!” I scrambled to shove the rejected clothing avalanche back into my suitcase, hiding the evidence of my meltdown.
My brother appeared in the doorway, still coated in a fine layer of dust and smelling of hay from his job at the Feed and Seed. He raised an eyebrow, taking in my slightly less-disheveled state. “You going somewhere?”
“Maybe.” I made a show of checking my phone, avoiding his gaze.
“Hot date?” The tease landed squarely on the truth, heat creeping up my neck.
“Just meeting a friend.”
Travis snorted, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. That stance always meant he wasn’t buying it. “Must be some friend. You actually combed your hair.”
“I always comb my hair.” I ran my fingers through it, deliberately mussing the careful arrangement.
“Sure you do.” His focus on me intensified. “Seriously though, you okay? Haven’t seen you this jumpy since prom night.”
I loved Travis, really. But damn, he knew exactly which buttons to push. Prom night. Why did he have to bring that up?
Saved by the crunch of gravel. Headlights swept across the blinds of the bedroom window, followed by the low rumble of a truck engine idling outside.
“That’s my ride.” I snatched my wallet from the nightstand.
“Wait, who—” Travis started, pushing off the doorframe.
But I was already moving, squeezing past him. “Don’t wait up!” I called over my shoulder, sprinting for the door like the trailer was on fire.
Outside, the Texas twilight painted the sky in bruised purples and fading orange. Wyatt’s truck, big and undeniably masculine, idled in the driveway. He stepped out as I approached, and my throat went drier than a summer pasture.
He’d cleaned up.
The dusty, sweat-stained rancher from the creek had vanished, replaced by something devastatingly potent.
Dark wash jeans hugged his thick thighs and sculpted ass.
A crisp pearl-snap shirt, the dark fabric stretching across his impossibly broad chest and shoulders, hinted at the solid muscle that I’d witnessed first-hand at the creek.
His boots, unlike the scuffed work pair from earlier, gleamed with polish.
His dark hair was still slightly damp, combed back from his forehead, and he’d trimmed the rugged stubble just enough to look deliberately effortless.
Well, damn. That was a whole lot of cowboy.
My brain felt like it was short-circuiting, smoke pouring from my ears.
“Hey.” His deep voice was like warm velvet in the cooling air.
“Hey yourself.” I shoved my hands deep into my pockets to stop them from trembling. “You clean up nice.”
A small, almost shy smile touched his lips. “Figured I should make an effort.”
“For Rainbow Night or for me?” The flirtatious question tumbled out before my brain could apply the brakes.
His blue eyes darkened, holding mine. “What do you think?”
The air between us crackled. This was real. This was happening.
I glanced back toward the trailer, imagining Travis peering through the blinds. “We should go before Travis starts formulating conspiracy theories.”
Wyatt nodded, the slight smile lingering. He pulled open the passenger door with a faint groan of old metal. “Your chariot awaits.”
Climbing into the cab was like entering Wyatt’s orbit. The air smelled of worn leather, sunbaked hay, and something uniquely Wyatt . Masculine, earthy, clean.
The wide bench seat, a relic of older trucks, meant I could sit closer to him than modern bucket seats would allow. Though the gear shift served as a demarcation point between our separate sides of the truck.
He slid behind the wheel, sending a jolt straight up my spine.
Yes, I was thirsty for the sight of a handsome cowboy driving his battered old pickup truck.
I really needed to rein it in.
“Not worried about what your brother might think?” Wyatt asked as he put the truck in gear, gravel crunching under the heavy tires as we pulled onto the road.
I shrugged, trying for a nonchalance I didn’t feel. “I’m more worried about the interrogation than about his approval.”
“True.” A faint smile touched Wyatt’s mouth again. “Remember when you came out?”
“How could I forget? He found... incriminating material... on my laptop. Led to the most cringe-worthy brotherly ‘talk’ ever, but underneath it all, Travis was solid. Supportive.”
Wyatt nodded, eyes on the darkening road.
The dashboard lights cast his strong profile in shades of green and orange.
“He came by my place right after. Wanted advice on how to be a good brother to you. Said he didn’t want to screw it up.
” Wyatt paused. “That’s when I told him, ‘Well, you’ve got a gay best friend too. ’”
“He never mentioned that.”
“That’s Travis.” Wyatt’s shoulders seemed to relax slightly, the tension easing. “He just sort of blinked, said, ‘Well, that explains a few things,’ and asked if I wanted to go grab a beer like nothing happened.”
I laughed. “Sounds exactly like him. Said the same thing to me, minus the beer offer. Promised to punch anyone who gave me grief.”
“That’s why we love him,” Wyatt said, a fondness in his voice that warmed me. “But tonight, let’s not give him too much ammo just yet.”
We talked as the truck ate up the miles, the familiar landscape blurring past the windows. The open fields and vast, star-dusted Texas sky felt worlds away from the cramped, light-polluted density of the Bay Area.
I found myself relaxing, letting the easy rhythm of conversation fill the space.
I told him a bit more about the startup burnout, about the project—an app designed to connect people for shared hobbies—only to have the VCs demand a pivot to blatant monetization that gutted its soul.
“Was like building sandcastles for billionaires,” I admitted, the bitterness still raw.
He listened, really listened. I also had him fill me in on local gossip I’d missed, the small-town dramas playing out. Beneath the casual chat, though, that electric current persisted, humming, intensifying every time his gaze lingered a fraction too long.
Twenty minutes later, Wyatt turned into the sprawling gravel lot of The Lone Star Tavern.
From the outside, it was indistinguishable from any other rural Texas watering hole—weathered wood siding, neon beer signs flickering, pickup trucks parked in dusty rows.
The only clue to the night’s special nature was a small, almost defiant rainbow flag taped inside one window.
“Not what I expected,” I admitted as we crunched across the gravel toward the entrance.
Wyatt’s eyes crinkled at the corners with amusement. “What were you expecting? Go-go dancers in chaps? A laser light show?”
“Hey, I wouldn’t have complained.” I bumped my shoulder against his arm—the only part of him I could comfortably reach without standing on tiptoe.
His laugh rumbled deep in his chest, a sound that vibrated right through me. “Sorry to disappoint. It’s still Milton, Texas. Population: hopeful.”
Inside, however, was a different story. The usual honky-tonk vibe had been overlaid with a layer of fabulous queer celebration. Colored spotlights swept across the room, bouncing off glittery rainbow streamers looped between the exposed ceiling beams.
A makeshift DJ booth pulsed in one corner, blasting a driving beat—something electronic and insistent.
The air smelled of stale beer, sweat, and competing colognes.
The crowd was decent-sized and surprisingly diverse—men dancing with men, women dancing with women, groups of friends laughing at tables, a couple of older guys holding hands at the bar.
It felt real, lived in, a pocket for connection created especially for those who needed community.
“Okay, I’m impressed,” I shouted over the thumping bass. “I had no idea this existed out here.”
“Told you the world’s changing.” Wyatt placed a large, warm hand on the small of my back, the pressure both possessive and guiding as he steered me toward the bar.
The heat of his palm seeped through the thin fabric of my henley, sending a cascade of tingles down my spine. My skin felt suddenly hyper-aware.
We found two empty stools wedged into a corner of the long wooden bar. Wyatt signaled the bartender—a woman with bright pink hair and heavily tattooed arms—with an easy familiarity that sparked a flicker inside me.