Page 4 of His Big Hometown Cowboy (Bigger Is Best #1)

“The usual, Walker?” the bartender yelled over the music.

“And whatever he’s having,” Wyatt replied, nodding toward me.

I raised an eyebrow as she plunked two sweating bottles of beer in front of us.

“The usual, huh?”

A faint flush crept up Wyatt’s muscular neck. “Don’t look so surprised.” He pushed a bottle toward me. “Told you I’ve been here before.”

“How often is ‘before’?” I couldn’t help asking, taking a sip of the cold beer.

“Once a month, give or take.” He leaned an elbow on the bar, turning toward me. “It’s not the Castro, but it’s... something.”

I studied him. He looked comfortable here, relaxed. How many nights had he spent on this stool? “So you come here alone?”

“Usually.” His gaze met mine, steady, holding nothing back.

“And leave alone?”

His eyes didn’t waver. “Not always.”

Heat, sharp and unwelcome, flared in my chest. I was glad Wyatt had a place like this to drop his stoic cowboy persona, to let loose once in a while, but…

I took another long swig of beer, trying to cool the sudden possessive burn.

So, he’d brought other guys home from here. Probably to that enormous bed I couldn’t stop picturing. The thought soured the beer in my mouth. “Well,” I managed, forcing a lightness I didn’t feel, “tonight you came with me.”

“Yes, I did.” His voice dropped, roughening, the sound vibrating low in his chest and straight into mine. “And I’ve been wanting to do that for a very long time.”

His directness blindsided me. This wasn’t the cautious, responsible Wyatt who’d always maintained a careful, almost brotherly distance. This was a man who knew exactly what he wanted, and he wanted me .

“How long?” I leaned closer, the noise of the bar fading away.

His eyes held me as he seemed to weigh his words. “A while,” he admitted, his voice quiet but intense. “Showing up at the ranch every weekend with Travis, all legs and smart mouth and eyes that saw too damn much. But you were off-limits.”

My breath hitched. He’d noticed me back then? Really noticed me? “And now?”

“Now you’re twenty-four.” His gaze dipped briefly to my mouth before returning to my eyes. “You’re sitting at a bar with me, looking at me like that .” A slow, wolfish grin spread across his face. “I’d say limits have definitely changed.”

A dizzying heat bloomed in my chest, spreading outward like wildfire.

While I was nursing my epic, secret crush, sneaking glances at him working shirtless, inventing reasons to be near him—had he been noticing me too? It felt like the ground had shifted beneath my barstool.

“You’ve changed,” I observed, my voice slightly breathless. I took in the sheer confidence radiating from him, the easy way he occupied his space.

“So have you.” His eyes performed a slow, deliberate appraisal, traveling down my body and back up, lingering in ways that made my pulse speed up. “Those California boys teach you how to dress?”

I laughed, a surge of pleasure warming me at his open appreciation. “Maybe. Or maybe I just have good taste. You like?”

“Very much.” He reached out, his rough fingers brushing against the rolled cuff of my sleeve, the brief contact sending an electric jolt straight up my arm. I’d forgotten the sheer power of simple touch when it came from the right person. “Brings out your eyes.”

Coming from anyone else, that would have sounded like the cheesy line it was. But when Wyatt said it… well, it did things to me.

“Always had a thing for cowboys.” I was emboldened by the beer and the heat in his eyes. “Especially tall ones in well-worn jeans and pearl-snap shirts.”

His ears flushed a faint pink, a charming contrast to his ruggedness. “That right?”

“Mmm-hmm.” I let my gaze wander down his impressive frame, lingering on the breadth of his shoulders, the way the shirt strained across his biceps, the strong column of his throat. “Always had a weakness for capable hands, too. The kind that look like they know how to work hard... and play hard.”

Now who was the one with the cheesy lines? Wyatt didn’t seem to care.

He set his beer down with a decisive thud, his expression shifting, darkening into something raw and hungry that stole the air from my lungs. “You’re playing with fire, Timmy.”

“Good.” I smiled, savoring the thrill of knowing I could affect him that way. “I’ve been cold for way too long.”

The music shifted, a heavy, thumping beat replacing the previous track. Recognition flared in Wyatt’s eyes.

“Dance with me,” he said, not asking. He slid off his stool and extended a large hand toward me.

I hesitated, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m not much of a dancer. Especially not... this kind.”

“Bullshit.” A wide grin spread across his face, making him look younger, almost boyish. “I’ve seen your TikToks.”

“You’ve what ?” I nearly choked on my beer, sputtering. “Since when do you have TikTok?”

He chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. “Might have done some reconnaissance. Looked you up once or twice... or maybe more than twice. You’ve got moves, Prescott. Don’t lie to me.”

Mortification warred with a ridiculous surge of flattery. He’d watched my silly dance videos? The ones I made when I was bored or procrastinating? Oh, God.

“Come on.” He nodded toward the crowded dance floor, his hand still extended, patient but insistent. “Are you really gonna turn down the best-looking cowboy in the entire place?”

The challenge, combined with the possessive pride in his voice, was impossible to resist. Setting my beer down with slightly trembling hands, I took his. His grip was warm, strong, enveloping mine completely. “When you put it that way...”

He led me onto the dance floor, his enormous frame easily parting the throng of bodies. The space was packed, forcing us close, which I suspected was his intention. His hands settled possessively on my hips, big and warm, guiding me effortlessly to the driving rhythm.

And damn, the man could move. For someone built like a redwood, Wyatt had a fluid, natural grace, a hip roll that was frankly indecent.

He moved with a confidence that belied his usual persona, his body interpreting the beat in a way that was mesmerizing.

Those powerful hands on my hips kept me anchored, moving me with him, against him.

“You’re full of surprises, Walker,” I shouted over the pounding music, feeling breathless. “Where’d a country boy learn to dance like this?”

“Might’ve taken a few two-step and line-dancing lessons down in Austin a few years back.

” His mouth was close to my ear, his warm breath sending shivers down my neck despite the heat of the room.

The bass vibrated through the floorboards, up my legs, settling low in my belly.

“Thought the skill set might come in handy someday.”

“Oh yeah?” I tilted my head back to look up at him. “For picking up guys at Rainbow Night?”

His laugh vibrated right through me, a physical sensation against my chest. “Maybe.” His eyes locked with mine, suddenly serious. “Or maybe for when I finally got the nerve to ask you to dance.”

The raw honesty of his admission stunned me, my feet faltering for a beat. Had he really been planning for a moment he wasn’t even sure would ever arrive?

The song ended abruptly, replaced by the unmistakable opening chords of Ke$ha’s “Take It Off.” A collective cheer went up from the crowd as people quickly began organizing themselves into rough lines.

“Line dance,” Wyatt explained, his hands still firm on my hips as he guided me into a spot near the center. “Just follow my lead. It’s easy.”

The choreography started simply enough—grapevine steps, claps, turns, a little hip shimmy. I watched Wyatt and the dancers around us, trying to keep up. He moved with an easy, practiced grace that was both impressive and slightly intimidating. This wasn’t his first rodeo.

“You know this routine by heart, don’t you?” I asked, amused despite my two left feet.

“Might’ve done it a time or two.” His grin was infectious, pulling an answering smile from me.

Then the chorus hit— Everybody take it off! —and understanding dawned with a sudden, hot rush. All around us, in perfect, uninhibited synchronicity, guys were reaching for the hems of their shirts, pulling them off overhead, swinging them briefly before tucking them into back pockets or waistbands.

Wyatt didn’t miss a beat. While still executing a smooth turn, he unfastened the pearl snaps of his shirt with practiced ease, revealing glimpses of the hard, tanned chest beneath.

I faltered, mesmerized as he shrugged the shirt off, baring the expanse of defined muscle, the dusting of dark hair that arrowed down his flat stomach.

He caught my stare, his eyes glittering with challenge, a wicked grin flashing across his face. “Your turn, city boy.”

Okay then. Challenge accepted.

With a surge of adrenaline and a little exhibitionist bravado fueled by beer and desire, I grabbed the hem of my henley.

I pulled it over my head in one swift motion, the heat of eyes on my bare skin.

Wyatt’s gaze darkened, sweeping over my leaner frame with an appreciative intensity that made my stomach clench.

I stuffed my shirt into my back pocket, my heart hammering.

The dance continued, but the energy had shifted. The air crackled, thick with playful sensuality and the friction of bare skin moving in rhythm.

Half-dressed bodies swayed and turned, the synchronized movements taking on a primal edge. Every time the choreography brought Wyatt and me close, brushing bare shoulder against bare chest, the space between us felt electric, charged with years of unspoken longing finally breaking free.

When the song ended, the DJ seamlessly transitioned into something slower. Couples around us instantly melted together, arms winding around waists and necks, bodies swaying intimately in the dim, colored light.

Wyatt didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. He simply stepped forward, closing the space between us.