Page 44 of Reluctant Bride

“I own several things.”

“Name one that isn’t your face.”

“My truck.”

“Your truck has a mule living next to it. That’s Felony’s truck now. You’re just paying the insurance.”

I laugh, right there in the middle of the Dead Horse with half the valley watching, her expression catches on the sound of it, the same look she used to give me across a county commission hearing right before she buried me under an amendment.

“You’re doing it again,” she says.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like I did something remarkable. I made a joke. That’s not remarkable.”

“You’re funny. I like this lighter side of you. You also had Marcus’ wrist in your hand before I ever reached you. That’s remarkable.”

“I didn’t need the theatrics. You’re the one who threatened to break both his arms.”

“I stand by it.”

Her hand slides from my shoulder to the back of my neck, her fingers cool against skin gone warm from the crowd and the beer and her, and I make the decision my whole body’s been arguing for since Marcus tried to put his hat on her.

“Back door,” I say.

“Scandalous.”

“You started it.”

“I finish what I start.”

“For the record,” I lean in close to her ear, steering her outside. “I’m the only cowboy you’re riding tonight, hat or not.”

“That was a terrible line when Marcus said it. It’s not better coming from you.”

“It’s better coming from me. I’ve got the boots to back it up.”

We don’t make it to the truck. We barely make it past the dumpster and the stack of empty kegs behind the building, moonlight thin and blue over the gravel, the bar’s noise muffled through the wall behind us, and her back finds the brick, and I pull my own hat off and settle it on her head. She chuckles under the brim of it until my mouth claims hers and the kiss stifles her laugh. Neither of us slows down enough to make it graceful. Her hands are under my shirt before I’ve got the door fully shut behind us. My hands find the hem of her dress, and she laughs again into my mouth, breathless, reckless, glancing once toward the door like getting caught is half the appeal instead of the whole problem.

“Anybody could walk out here,” she says, not stopping.

“Then we’d better be quick.”

“Quick’s never been your problem. You’ve never been slow in your life.”

“Is that a complaint?”

“It’s an observation.”

I hitch her up against the brick, her legs wrapping around me, her dress bunched at her hips, and she’s right there with me, laughing and gasping in equal measure, one hand fisted in my hair and the other clamped over her own mouth when the door two feet away swings open for a man stepping out for a smoke, who takes one look at the dark corner we’re tangled in and has the decency to go back inside without a word.

“Oh my God,” she says, muffled, fizzing with mirth against my collarbone.

“He didn’t see anything.”

“He absolutely saw something.”

“He saw a married couple enjoying each other. That’s legal in this state.”