Page 22 of Road to a Cowboy

But all he could do was stand there like a statue and stare at his best friend as the hope on Austin’s face slowly changed to resignation.

And still Cal remained mute, unsure what to say or do or think or feel.

He wanted to flee out of fear and anxiousness, run away from this conversation as fast as he could. At the same time, temptation nearly shoved him in the back with invisible fingers, urging him closer to Austin.

He did neither of those things, doubt and temptation intermingling and making his head swim, his vision go hazy.

What if dating messed up their relationship?

What if it didn’t?

But what if it did?

Christ.

Everything he’d ever wanted with Austin was being handed to him as though his every secret fantasy had been unearthed, and?—

Except, it wasn’t everything. It was barely the start of something, but it was a start that hadn’t existed two minutes ago.

Still, Cal hesitated. What if this start of something turned into the start of nothing? What if they crashed and burned faster than one of Ewan and Orson’s arguments?

Austin smiled, flat and insincere, and took a step back, throat bobbing when he swallowed.

Hot panic flared in Cal’s chest, burning its way to the base of his throat. He grasped Austin’s wrist. “Wait. I?—”

“Cal.”

He jumped at the interruption, but he didn’t let Austin go as one of his employees approached.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Gwen said. “Al called the office line for you. Something about the feed order that’s meant to be delivered this week.”

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. Then, louder, “I’ll be there in a minute. Austin, I?—”

“It’s fine,” Austin said with another smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I get it.”

The way he said it—I get it—it curdled something in Cal’s stomach. “No, wait. That’s not?—”

“It’s fine,” Austin said again, gently sliding his wrist free from Cal’s grasp, leaving Cal feeling alone and lost. “You go deal with that phone call. I’ve got to head back to the gallery anyway.”

With that, he turned and headed for his car, the bag of Twizzlers held so tightly that his knuckles were white. His strides were confident, his shoulders thrown back, his chin up.

But Cal knew Austin well enough to know that he was hurting, despite Austin’s attempt at showing the world otherwise.

“Fuck.” Tipping his head back, Cal groaned up at the blue, blue sky. “Fuck.”

“Hey, Cal. Got a second?” Orson called, dashing any thoughts Cal had about going after his best friend.

His day felt atrociously endless. And worst of all, he kept picturing Austin sulking around his gallery, thinking Cal didn’t want to go out with him.

Which of course he didn’t—but he also did.

It was all very confusing.

By the end of the day, he’d convinced himself that no matter how badly he wanted it, dating Austin was a terrible idea—it was much too risky—and he’d pulled out his phone a dozen times to text Austin exactly that.

Only to tuck his phone away again. Austin deserved a face-to-face conversation, not a brush-off text.

When he left the ranch that evening, Cal picked up dinner at the diner in town before going home, and instead of parking in his own driveway, he parked in Austin’s, next to Austin’s SUV.

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