Page 38 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy
I nod, heart thudding. “Okay.”
His gaze lingers on mine, unreadable. “Don’t be late.” He winks, and I almost fall over from swooning.
Then he walks off, and I’m left standing on the porch, soaked in mud and confusion, attraction and dread swirling in equal measure.
Because I’m not just flustered or overwhelmed.
It scares me how fast I’m falling for them.
And I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do about it.
9
WALKER
As I head back toward the barns, I adjust my jeans with a frustrated grunt, trying to will away the hard-on that’s been throbbing since I left Sophia on the porch. Hell. She has no idea what she’s already doing to me, and I mean that in every damn sense. One soft look, one teasing smile, and I’m walking around half wrecked. I’d prayed for this moment more times than I’ll admit—finding her, my Omega. The one the world promised would fit beside me like fate knew what it was doing. But no one tells you what it feels like when she’s actually here. Real. Complicated. Beautiful. And already starting to unravel the neat little order I’d forced into my life.
She’s going to destroy us. I can feel it in my bones.
But fuck, I’ve never wanted anything more.
I never told the others how much I wanted this. I kept that shit locked up tight, played it cool. But I’vebeen waiting. And now she’s here. Of course it’d happen now, with the inheritance mess, with emotions already raw. Is there ever a good time for your entire world to tilt on its axis?
And this is exactly why I didn’t say anything yet. I need her to trust me, not question whether I’m using her for the ranch. These are two different things, no matter how tangled up they might feel. That’s why I watched instead. I paid attention. To her gasps. Her shallow breaths. The way those big eyes locked on mine like I was the only thing anchoring her. The way she clung to me without even thinking, her fingers fisting in my shirt like letting go wasn’t an option.
And beneath it all—fuck me—that delicious, slick-sweet undercurrent of her scent, thick and needy and buried under her nerves. It damn near brought me to my knees. I wanted to pin her to a tree right then and claim her as mine, every raw inch of her.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
She doesn’t look ready to give in.
And I sure as hell won’t be the reason she runs.
So I lock it down. Push the heat back under my ribs and put one boot in front of the other. The ranch doesn’t stop spinning just because I’m losing my damn mind.
Cash leans against the rail like he owns it, toothpick between his teeth, that calculating look in his eyes that means he’s trying to run numbers, which is what Ridge normally takes care of. Probablyfiguring transport costs for the three horses we sold to that Texas breeder. High-dollar deal, clean money, no complications.
Well. We’re about to get messy.
“Need to talk,” I say, pushing through the gate hard enough that it slams against the post with a metallic clang.
The round pen is about sixty feet across, dust-packed earth underfoot, the fence solid pipe panels that circle like a corral cage. Ridge has the lead rope in one hand, gloved fingers loose but firm, body still and measured. He doesn’t look up at the sound, but the horse does, ears twitching back, nostrils flaring.
Animals always know when the energy shifts.
“Thought we settled on sending the buckskin with the others,” Ridge states without breaking rhythm. He gives a quiet click of his tongue, and the sorrel gelding moves at a lazy walk around the inner edge of the pen.
Cash has one boot hooked up on the lowest rung as though he’s settled in for the show. Hat low, sunglasses on. Classic. He squints toward me now, head tilting just a fraction.
“Not about the horses,” I mutter.
That gets Cash’s full attention. He straightens, flicking the toothpick away, brow cocked like he’s just been handed something interesting. “What crawled up your ass?”
I step into the center of the pen, dust kicking up around my boots, the kind that clings to your jeans andsettles in your lungs. My body is still thrumming from having Sophia in my arms when I carried her back, her laugh and her scent short-circuiting my brain.
“Sophia.”
The name drops between us like a live grenade.
