Page 2 of His Big Hometown Cowboy
Heat crept up my neck that had nothing to do with the sun.
Flustered. Shit.
“Didn’t realize tech bros were so interested in the agricultural aesthetic.”
“We appreciate a good view.” His eyes met mine, direct and unwavering. “Some things just don’t change, no matter how far you go.”
That damn undercurrent again, stronger this time, pulling like the creek’s own flow.
Timmy wasn’t a kid anymore. Not even close.
And the way he was looking at me now wasn’t childish curiosity. It was something else entirely. Something that saw right through the ‘responsible rancher’ facade.
I crossed my arms, trying to regain control of the situation, of myself. “Well, some things do change. You look?—”
I never finished the sentence. Pepper, having drunk her fill, chose that exact moment to nudge her head against my back.
Hard.
Hard enough to send me stumbling forward on the slick mud of the bank. My boots lost purchase, and before I could even curse, I pitched headfirst into Brogan Creek with a loud, undignified splash.
The water wasn’t deep, maybe chest-high. I surfaced sputtering, spitting water, my hat floating serenely downstream. My boots felt like concrete anchors.
Tim’s laughter rang out, echoing off the water. Deep and genuine, not mocking, just pure amusement. “Smooth move, Walker!”
I pushed wet hair from my face. “Glad I could provide some entertainment.”
“The pleasure’s all mine.” He wiped tears of mirth from his eyes, still chuckling. Then, without warning, he stood up on the rock, kicked off his canvas shoes, and—in one fluid, surprising motion—stripped off his shorts.
My mouth went dry. He stood there in nothing but snug black briefs that left very little to the imagination. For a guy who wasn’t tall, he was perfectly proportioned. Compact, strong lines, zero softness. Just lean muscle and smooth, tanned skin.
“What are you?—”
Before I could finish, he launched himself off the rock, cannon balling into the water beside me, sending another wave sloshing over my head. He emerged with a whoop, water streaming down his face, plastering his short hair to his scalp.
“Damn, that feels good!” He shook his head like a wet dog, droplets flying everywhere.
I snatched my hat before it floated all the way to Fort Worth and slogged toward the bank, soaked clothes heavy and clinging, boots squelching with every step. I watched him float easily on his back, sunlight catching the water droplets on his chest and stomach.
“You’re insane,” I said, but the words came out with an unwilling smile.
“Life’s too short not to jump in.” He flipped over with barely a splash and swam toward me with smooth, efficient strokes. “Though I’m guessing those clothes are pretty uncomfortable right now.”
He stopped a few feet away, treading water. Close enough that I could see the individual water beads clinging to hiseyelashes. Close enough that if I reached out, my hand would land right on the curve of his shoulder, where a specific freckle I remembered from years ago still marked his skin. The thought sent a jolt through me.
“They aren’t great,” I admitted, the wet denim feeling rough and heavy. “But I’m not stripping down in broad daylight.”
“Why not? No one around for miles.” His eyes glinted with challenge, a familiar spark I hadn’t seen in years. “Unless you’re shy all of a sudden.”
Shy wasn’t the word. Wary, maybe.
Standing half-naked near Tim Prescott, with four years of distance suddenly evaporated between us, felt like playing with faulty wiring. Dangerous.
“Some of us have a reputation to maintain,” I said instead, running a hand over my jaw.
“Right. The serious rancher.” He splashed water at me playfully, droplets hitting my face. “God forbid anyone see Wyatt Walker having fun.”
That did it.
