Page 8 of His Big Hometown Cowboy
I found myself relaxing, letting the easy rhythm of conversation fill the space. I told him a bit more about the startup burnout, about the project—an app designed to connect people for shared hobbies—only to have the VCs demand a pivot to blatant monetization that gutted its soul. “Was like building sandcastles for billionaires,” I admitted, the bitterness still raw.
He listened, really listened. I also had him fill me in on local gossip I’d missed, the small-town dramas playing out. Beneath the casual chat, though, that electric current persisted,humming, intensifying every time his gaze lingered a fraction too long.
Twenty minutes later, Wyatt turned into the sprawling gravel lot of The Lone Star Tavern. From the outside, it was indistinguishable from any other rural Texas watering hole—weathered wood siding, neon beer signs flickering, pickup trucks parked in dusty rows. The only clue to the night’s special nature was a small, almost defiant rainbow flag taped inside one window.
“Not what I expected,” I admitted as we crunched across the gravel toward the entrance.
Wyatt’s eyes crinkled at the corners with amusement. “What were you expecting? Go-go dancers in chaps? A laser light show?”
“Hey, I wouldn’t have complained.” I bumped my shoulder against his arm—the only part of him I could comfortably reach without standing on tiptoe.
His laugh rumbled deep in his chest, a sound that vibrated right through me. “Sorry to disappoint. It’s still Milton, Texas. Population: hopeful.”
Inside, however, was a different story. The usual honky-tonk vibe had been overlaid with a layer of fabulous queer celebration. Colored spotlights swept across the room, bouncing off glittery rainbow streamers looped between the exposed ceiling beams.
A makeshift DJ booth pulsed in one corner, blasting a driving beat—something electronic and insistent. The air smelled of stale beer, sweat, and competing colognes. The crowd was decent-sized and surprisingly diverse—men dancing with men, women dancing with women, groups of friends laughing at tables, a couple of older guys holding hands at the bar.
It felt real, lived in, a pocket for connection created especially for those who needed community.
“Okay, I’m impressed,” I shouted over the thumping bass. “I had no idea this existed out here.”
“Told you the world’s changing.” Wyatt placed a large, warm hand on the small of my back, the pressure both possessive and guiding as he steered me toward the bar. The heat of his palm seeped through the thin fabric of my henley, sending a cascade of tingles down my spine. My skin felt suddenly hyper-aware.
We found two empty stools wedged into a corner of the long wooden bar. Wyatt signaled the bartender—a woman with bright pink hair and heavily tattooed arms—with an easy familiarity that sparked a flicker inside me.
“The usual, Walker?” the bartender yelled over the music.
“And whatever he’s having,” Wyatt replied, nodding toward me.
I raised an eyebrow as she plunked two sweating bottles of beer in front of us.
“The usual, huh?”
A faint flush crept up Wyatt’s muscular neck. “Don’t look so surprised.” He pushed a bottle toward me. “Told you I’ve been here before.”
“How often is ‘before’?” I couldn’t help asking, taking a sip of the cold beer.
“Once a month, give or take.” He leaned an elbow on the bar, turning toward me. “It’s not the Castro, but it’s... something.”
I studied him. He looked comfortable here, relaxed. How many nights had he spent on this stool? “So you come here alone?”
“Usually.” His gaze met mine, steady, holding nothing back.
“And leave alone?”
His eyes didn’t waver. “Not always.”
Heat, sharp and unwelcome, flared in my chest. I was glad Wyatt had a place like this to drop his stoic cowboy persona, to let loose once in a while, but…
I took another long swig of beer, trying to cool the sudden possessive burn.
So, he’d brought other guys home from here. Probably to that enormous bed I couldn’t stop picturing. The thought soured the beer in my mouth. “Well,” I managed, forcing a lightness I didn’t feel, “tonight you came with me.”
“Yes, I did.” His voice dropped, roughening, the sound vibrating low in his chest and straight into mine. “And I’ve been wanting to do that for a very long time.”
His directness blindsided me. This wasn’t the cautious, responsible Wyatt who’d always maintained a careful, almost brotherly distance. This was a man who knew exactly what he wanted, and he wantedme.
“How long?” I leaned closer, the noise of the bar fading away.
