Page 18 of The County Line (Whitewood Creek Farm #2)

“Hey –” my words slur as I grip his bicep to try to steady myself.

His large, tattooed, very strong bicep.

I squeeze as much as my fingers can wrap around and try not to focus on how the solid muscle doesn't give even a little under my grasp. I swear he’s flexing to make it that way but when I look at his face, he looks relaxed, well as relaxed as Colt can be these days.

My pulse races, my body warms and despite this being one of my closest childhood friends, I can't help but feel like something's changing between us.

“Hey, I um, I thought you said that your little was named Malachi? It looked like you were paired up with a young girl today?” I’m grasping at anything now.

He watches me like I’m the only thing worth looking at. And it’s only now—hours after we first stepped into the bar, after the laughter, the rounds of drinks, the game of darts—that I realize something. He hasn’t spoken to anyone else tonight. Not really.

All the other volunteers we came with are scattered around the bar—some tucked into booths, others draped over barstools, locked in conversation or halfway through bad karaoke performances—but not him.

He hasn’t mingled. Hasn’t flirted. Hasn’t even tried to make small talk with anyone else.

His attention, from the moment we walked in, has been wrapped around me like a slow, deliberate tether.

He's sat beside me. Ordered my drinks. He leaned in when he talked, voice low and close enough to stir goosebumps along my neck.

And then he challenged me to darts, just so he could stand behind me, his breath brushing the back of my ear, his palm steadying my arm like he was guiding more than just my throw when it was completely unnecessary.

And now, sitting here again, I feel it—the heat of his gaze, unapologetic and unblinking.

Women keep glancing our way. I’ve noticed it all night.

Their eyes always seem to land on him, curious and lingering, lips twisting into intrigued little smiles.

And who could blame them? He’s impossible not to look at.

Tall and broad-shouldered with a quiet, coiled intensity that fills every corner of the room.

That jaw, sharp and shadowed. Those hands, big and capable, wrapped casually around his water.

And God, the way his back flexes every time he throws a dart, muscles shifting beneath his shirt like he was built to hold weight—mine, maybe.

I’ve been doing it too. Stealing glances, tracing the curve of his forearms when he rolls his sleeves up, watching the way he presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek when he’s focused.

Every part of him feels precise. Controlled.

But his attention on me? That’s the one thing he doesn’t seem to be holding back.

“He is,” Colt finally responds, “But he’s out of town with his mom for the next two weeks. Lydia assigned me to Jenni temporarily.”

“Jenni… she’s adorable. Did you have a nice time with her today?” I ask, trying to stay focused.

He studies me, his gaze steady as I blink a few times, trying to act normal and not get caught in his magnetic pull. But it’s no use. Between him and the alcohol, I’m already a goner. I’m not even sure if my questions are making sense.

“Yes,” he says, his voice low and even.

I nod, doing my best to keep the conversation going without sounding too giggly. “Lydia seems to like you too. I’m sure she’s thrilled to have you volunteering there every week.”

His brows furrow like he has no idea what I’m hinting at. “Sure.”

I tilt my head, pressing on despite his clipped responses.

“Don’t you want to get back out there in the dating world.

.. shoot your shot?” I lower my voice so that only he can hear me, “Maybe get your dick sucked?” I’m giggling now, fully aware I’m pushing his buttons and acting totally immature.

But I can’t figure him out—why he isn’t interested in dating, or what he meant earlier about not wanting to mess around.

The guy’s been locked up for four freaking years.

You’d think he’d be desperate for some action. I know I would be.

Plus, Lydia is gorgeous, kind and sweet, even if she might not know how to handle all the man that Colt is. Okay, it’s not like I would know how to either. But I like to think I might be able to.

His voice drops, a thread of warning in his tone. “I think I can make that decision for myself.”

Now I’m irritated. I straighten in my seat, mimicking a stern voice as I deepen my tone.

“As your parole officer, I highly recommend you find a hobby—and that hobby involves loosening up and hooking up with a stranger tonight.” I lift a finger and swirl it dramatically in the air before slamming it against the table like a gavel before bursting into laughter.

Lydia slides up to the table between us with a wide grin on her face before Colt can respond to my ridiculous demands. “Hey you two. Are you up for another round of darts?”

“Molly…” Colt cautions as if he can read my mind.

“Sure!” I chirp ignoring him a little too enthusiastically, as I push off the barstool—only to misjudge my footing and nearly go sprawling to the floor.

Before I can hit the ground, Colt’s hands are on me, catching me with ease.

One strong arm wraps around my waist, holding me suspended just long enough for my heart to trip over itself.

I look up, breath stuttering, only to find his gaze locked on mine—stormy, intense, and definitely not amused by my antics.

My stomach flips. He’s holding me a little too tightly, his grip firm and unyielding, and I can tell by the tension in his jaw that he’s not thrilled about my current state. Honestly? I probably deserve it.

He sets me upright, steadying me for a beat before standing back, but his glare lingers. Heat prickles over my skin, embarrassment creeping in.

“Uh—actually, on second thought…” I clear my throat, needing an escape. “I think I need a minute. Bathroom. Just—uh, I have to pee.”

She nods, shooting me a knowing smile before sauntering off, looking far more composed than I feel. For someone who’s had her fair share of drinks tonight, she carries it well. That or they are all virgins. Actually, I know they are virgins.

Meanwhile, insecurity slithers up my spine.

I feel unsteady—not just from the alcohol, but from the weight of Colt’s scrutiny.

Suddenly, I’m too aware of how ridiculous I must look, how childish I must seem taunting him and pushing him to ask Lydia out.

And worse? The familiar, suffocating feeling of foolishness around men creeps in, tightening like a fist around my ribs.

“Molly,” Colt warns again.

“I just need a second,” I snap, my tone sharp with frustration.

Steadying myself on my feet, I spin on my heel and weave through the crowded bar toward the bathrooms. I finally reach the long, dimly lit hallway, but instead of going inside like I should—breaking the seal and pulling myself together so that I can stop acting so immature—I lean against the cold, cement wall.

Pressing my back firmly against it, I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath, willing my racing heart to calm down.

What the hell is happening out there?

Between Colt’s touch and the alcohol clouding my head, I can’t make sense of anything.

I try to steady myself, focusing on my breath—slow, measured inhales—the cool press of cement beneath me, grounding me, keeping me tethered to reality.

But the moment is delicate, fragile, like I’m holding myself together with frayed threads.

So much has changed. And yet, here I am, back in the town that shaped me, spending the evening with the one man who has always felt like home. There’s something poetic about it—something devastating, too.

Then I feel it. A shift in the air. A presence.

My eyes snap open, and he’s there. Colt.

His broad frame blocks out everything else, his body radiating heat in the small space that’s between us. He’s too close, too solid, too much.

“Colt,” I breathe, his name tumbling from my lips like a prayer, soft and aching.

For a split second, I wonder if I’ve conjured him in my drunken haze.

But real or not, I can’t stop myself from drinking him in—those strong hazel eyes, the sharp cut of his jaw, the slight scruff on his face.

Broad shoulders, tapered waist. Power wrapped in control.

And God help me, I want to unravel it.

“You’re drunk,” he says flatly. It’s not a question, but I nod anyway.

“I am,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Let me drive you home.”

I nod again, though I’m not sure if I can move.

My legs feel like they’re no longer mine, tingling from the drinks, and every part of me wants to drown him.

His scent—warm, musky, and utterly intoxicating—wraps around me as he moves closer, making it even harder to focus.

His lips are so full, so inviting, I want to touch them, to know if they’re as soft as they look.

All of the years that we’ve spent together as friends, the times I slept on the floor of his bedroom, everything had always been platonic.

Now, years between us and thousands of mistakes made, it doesn't feel so unrealistic to give into those urges I've always had.

Then his hand reaches out, brushing over my shoulder, down across my chest, before moving upwards and resting gently at my neck.

His thick fingers wrap around the column of my throat, not tight, but enough to hold me in place and keep my gaze focused on his.

It’s possessive and way too hot. I’ve never had anyone hold me like this before.

I instantly decide I like it but only because it’s him.

“Molly,” he murmurs darkly. His thumb grazes my bottom lip, light as a feather, and it sends a shiver down my spine. “Why are you so worried about me asking Lydia out?”