Page 5 of For Cowgirls and Kings
“How tall are you anyway?” I grumble, unable to tear my eyes away from his stone-like stature.
“Six four. Same as I was as a senior.”
I blink at that. Ten years isn’t that long, and yet it’s an eternity. And in that span of time the kind, handsome boy I crushed on became something else entirely—something covered in dark tattoos and miles of muscle that no longer makes my heart just flutter but want to fucking burst.
“Huh.”
“How tall are you?” I swear he flexes his muscles and a bead of sweat forms at my temple.
“Short,” I bite out, unable to remember my exact height with him this close.
“And still full of piss and vinegar I see.”
My eyes snap to his. “You’re a lot sassier than I remember. And—” I wave a hand, motioning the muscle-bound space between us. “Buffer.”
“Buffer?” His smile widens a fraction and my heart slams in my throat.
“Covered in tattoos,” I add. Full sentences aren’t making a comeback anytime soon apparently.
He shrugs. “I’m not a boy anymore.”
Yes, I can fucking see that.I lick my lips, my mouth bone dry.
“You’re not a girl either.” His eyes flick down my body, a scorching blaze over my already warm skin, and I shiver at the intensity of it.
I turn back to face the door. Absolutely nothing good’s going to come from being this close, and I’m aware I’m about to say something stupid. It’s clear he’s getting too much pleasure out of my discomfort.
I wonder what else he gets pleasure out of?I growl at my spiraling thoughts.No, Dale. Bad. Down.
By some miracle, I find the key hole in one attempt and push the door open with a gasp. I stumble inside, not taking a second to realize he’s in my house, taking in my most private space—my life.
I never let anyone into my space; Stetson’s only visited once recently, and that was because she insisted. It’s not that I don’t love her and see her as my best friend. But sharing my space feels like exposing myself naked, and the character I’ve made myself to be in public is far different to the one I hide behind my little black door.
The door clicks shut, and I whirl to face Mateo once more. My heart pounds angrily in my throat, the realization he’s here almost too much for me to handle. I watch him, unable to form words.
The small cottage—the only place in this world that’s truly mine—is cluttered full of character. But for someone who’s used to million dollar hotel rooms and diamond encrusted dinner plates, I’m sure it looks like a hovel. I’m proud of the space I’ve created, but for the first time I feel insecure.What if it’s all trash?
This is exactly why I don’t let anyone in here.
He moves into the small living room, his head only inches from touching the low ceiling, and I watch his eyes move over the shelves of pictures, books, and figurines. Hisenormous, tattoo covered hand reaches out gingerly, touching a small glass dragon sitting next to one of my collectors edition book series, and it nearly sucks what little oxygen I’ve been able to absorb out of my body. He looks so out of place here, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
“It’s not much,” I finally croak out, and I hate how nervous I sound. He doesn’t turn around, instead continues stepping around the room, taking in every little shelf and photo. I didn’t picture him as someone who would appreciate the little things, but he seems almost mesmerized, and it squeezes on my heart painfully.
My phone dings, and I pull it out seeing a new text from Stetson.
STETSON: That Faith girl said she’s coming to my house next week.
STETSON: On Friday. Please be there. Bring booze.
I snort, Stetson’s nerves palpable even from here. I don’t know much about Faith, but her younger sister is one of my students, and I enjoy her. I imagine Faith is equally good people.
ME: What do you need me there for?
STETSON: I don’t know how to talk to girls. Please.
I smile, shaking my head.
ME: I’ll bring Margarita’s.
