Page 7 of His Big Hometown Cowboy
“Wait, who—” Travis started, pushing off the doorframe.
But I was already moving, squeezing past him. “Don’t wait up!” I called over my shoulder, sprinting for the door like the trailer was on fire.
Outside, the Texas twilight painted the sky in bruised purples and fading orange. Wyatt’s truck, big and undeniably masculine, idled in the driveway. He stepped out as I approached, and my throat went drier than a summer pasture.
He’d cleaned up.
The dusty, sweat-stained rancher from the creek had vanished, replaced by something devastatingly potent. Dark wash jeans hugged his thick thighs and sculpted ass. A crisp pearl-snap shirt, the dark fabric stretching across his impossibly broad chest and shoulders, hinted at the solid muscle that I’d witnessed first-hand at the creek. His boots, unlike the scuffed work pair from earlier, gleamed with polish. His dark hair was still slightly damp, combed back from his forehead, and he’d trimmed the rugged stubble just enough to look deliberately effortless.
Well, damn.That was a whole lot of cowboy.
My brain felt like it was short-circuiting, smoke pouring from my ears.
“Hey.” His deep voice was like warm velvet in the cooling air.
“Hey yourself.” I shoved my hands deep into my pockets to stop them from trembling. “You clean up nice.”
A small, almost shy smile touched his lips. “Figured I should make an effort.”
“For Rainbow Night or for me?” The flirtatious question tumbled out before my brain could apply the brakes.
His blue eyes darkened, holding mine. “What do you think?”
The air between us crackled. This was real. This was happening.
I glanced back toward the trailer, imagining Travis peering through the blinds. “We should go before Travis starts formulating conspiracy theories.”
Wyatt nodded, the slight smile lingering. He pulled open the passenger door with a faint groan of old metal. “Your chariot awaits.”
Climbing into the cab was like entering Wyatt’s orbit. The air smelled of worn leather, sunbaked hay, and something uniquelyWyatt. Masculine, earthy, clean.
The wide bench seat, a relic of older trucks, meant I could sit closer to him than modern bucket seats would allow. Though the gear shift served as a demarcation point between our separate sides of the truck.
He slid behind the wheel, sending a jolt straight up my spine.
Yes, I was thirsty for the sight of a handsome cowboy driving his battered old pickup truck.
I really needed to rein it in.
“Not worried about what your brother might think?” Wyatt asked as he put the truck in gear, gravel crunching under the heavy tires as we pulled onto the road.
I shrugged, trying for a nonchalance I didn’t feel. “I’m more worried about the interrogation than about his approval.”
“True.” A faint smile touched Wyatt’s mouth again. “Remember when you came out?”
“How could I forget? He found... incriminating material... on my laptop. Led to the most cringe-worthy brotherly ‘talk’ ever, but underneath it all, Travis was solid. Supportive.”
Wyatt nodded, eyes on the darkening road. The dashboard lights cast his strong profile in shades of green and orange. “He came by my place right after. Wanted advice on how to be a good brother to you. Said he didn’t want to screw it up.” Wyatt paused. “That’s when I told him, ‘Well, you’ve got a gay best friend too.’”
“He never mentioned that.”
“That’s Travis.” Wyatt’s shoulders seemed to relax slightly, the tension easing. “He just sort of blinked, said, ‘Well, that explains a few things,’ and asked if I wanted to go grab a beer like nothing happened.”
I laughed. “Sounds exactly like him. Said the same thing to me, minus the beer offer. Promised to punch anyone who gave me grief.”
“That’s why we love him,” Wyatt said, a fondness in his voice that warmed me. “But tonight, let’s not give him too much ammo just yet.”
We talked as the truck ate up the miles, the familiar landscape blurring past the windows. The open fields and vast, star-dusted Texas sky felt worlds away from the cramped, light-polluted density of the Bay Area.
