Page 96 of The Fire Line

Harris moved back too quickly and caught a hanging bridle with his shoulder. The bit struck the wall with a bright metallic clink that sounded, to Harris, approximately as subtle as a rifle shot.

“—should have the new hinges Friday,” Evan was saying.

Shit.

They were still coming.

Jay grabbed the nearest saddle blanket and held it up as though he’d devoted his entire professional life to textile inspection. Harris turned toward the workbench, retrieved the breast collar he had abandoned, and tried to force his breathing into something that belonged to a man performing ordinary tack maintenance rather than one who had just had another man’s hand down the back of his jeans.

Evan reached the doorway with Pete from the neighboring ranch beside him.

His attention moved from Harris to Jay.

Harris kept his expression still, though Christ knew what the rest of him looked like. Jay’s hair was wrecked, his mouth red from kissing, and one side of his shirt had worked loose from his jeans. Harris could still feel the heat of his hand on skin nobody else had ever touched.

Evan glanced at the saddle blanket. “What are you doing?”

Jay looked down at it as if only then discovering what he had grabbed.

“Harris was explaining saddle-pad construction.”

Harris nearly closed his eyes.

Evan blinked. “Why?”

“Visual literacy.”

Silence settled over the tack room.

At least Pete seemed deeply uninterested in whatever bizarre production discussion he had interrupted. Evan was less helpful. His eyes moved back to Harris.

Harris lifted the breast collar. “Stupid production question.”

“Right.”

His brother let the word hang there, gaze lingering a fraction longer than Harris liked. He knew that look. Evan had not necessarily figured anything out, but something had struck him as odd enough to remember.

That might have been worse.

Then Pete asked about a spare set of reins, drawing Evan toward the shelf beside the doorway. Their entire exchange lasted less than a minute, though Harris felt each second drag past before the two men finally continued down the aisle.

He waited until their footsteps had faded before letting his shoulders loosen.

Across from him, Jay slowly lowered the blanket.

“Visual literacy?” Harris asked.

“I was under pressure.”

“You’re supposed to be good at this.”

“I make documentaries. I do not generally provide emergency cover stories while clutching horse paraphernalia.”

Harris put the breast collar back on the workbench.

His pulse was still running too fast. Unfortunately, so was everything else. Being interrupted had done almost nothing to cool the want under his skin, and the memory of Jay’s hand remained available with humiliating precision.

Jay shoved his hair away from his face. “We need to be more careful.”