Clay's hand found the back of my neck. He didn't pull me toward him. Didn't say it would be fine. Just kept his hand there, warm and steady, and let me have it.
When the shaking slowed, I sat up. Wiped my face with both palms. Stared straight ahead.
"I fucking hate this," I said. "I hate every single second of this."
"I know."
I breathed. Rolled my shoulders back. Lifted my chin.
"I've got forty-eight hours," he said. "And I plan to use every single one of them making you forget how much this hurts. You in?"
"I'm in."
He put the truck in drive. "Then buckle up, darlin'."
Darlin'.I'd heard him use it before — casually, easily, the way cowboys spend words like loose change. This time it sat in the air between us like something solid.
My breath caught. Just once. Like I'd heard it too — the line between the old word and the new one.
I didn't say anything. But my hand found his on the console and stayed there.
The Silver Spur on a Friday night was Copper Creek in its natural habitat.
String lights in the parking lot. A band that knew three speeds — slow, slower, and one Garth Brooks cover that shookthe rafters. Ben Alvarez behind the bar pouring generous and Rosie running the floor like a five-foot-two general. The smell of sawdust and cold beer and perfume worn with intent.
Clay had called ahead. Corner booth, the one with enough shadow to feel private. I slid in, and within thirty seconds, I was watching the band and tapping my thumb against the table in time with the bass line. I didn't realise I was doing it until Clay's mouth twitched.
"What are you drinking?" he asked.
"Something strong."
"That bad?"
"That necessary."
Two whiskeys appeared. I picked mine up and clinked it against his.
"To forty-eight hours," I said.
"To every minute of them."
I drank. Set the glass down. Kicked off one heel under the table and tucked my foot beneath me. My hair was falling out of whatever I'd done to it in the truck's visor mirror. I let it fall.
"You're staring," I said.
"I am absolutely staring."
"Is that going to be a problem?"
"For me? Yes. Major problem. Catastrophic, even."
I bit my lip against a smile. "Catastrophic."
"I may not survive this evening."
"You've ridden bulls."
"Bulls are predictable. You in that dress is a threat to national security."
