“Youdo?”
“Yeah.”
Simple.
Certain.
And something in my chest just… clicks into place.
This.
This is the beginning.
I can feel it.
“Good,” I say, trying—and probably failing—to sound casual. “Because I fully intend to commit to the bit.”
“I can see that.”
“Also, if I fall again, I’m going to need you to catch me in a slightly less… chest-focused way.”
His mouth curves. “No promises.”
I swallow.
“That’s… concerning.”
“You’re the one wearing a tripping hazard.”
“Fashion is pain, Miller.”
“Pretty sure falling face first into the floor is more pain.”
“Wow. So unsupportive.”
He steps back slightly, gesturing toward the door. “You ready?”
I nod, grabbing my clutch. “Ready.”
We step out into the warm Texas evening together.
And as we walk toward the main building, I sneak a glance at him.
At the leather. The muscle. The fact that he did this—for me.
Yeah.
I am in so much trouble.
nine
“TENNESSEE WHISKEY” — CHRIS STAPLETON
Miller
I have seen Tavey Ramsey in approximately ten thousand outfits over the past three years.
Jeans and oversized sweaters. Sundresses. Leggings and boots. Office-appropriate tops that somehow still managed to make me think deeply inappropriate thoughts. Once, on a team-building day at a trampoline park, she wore pigtail braids and an expression of manic delight that haunted my masturbatory fantasies for a full goddamn month.
