Page 43 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy
I want to argue, not about the practicality but about the spending. I hate the idea of racking up any kind of debt here, even temporarily. My current wardrobe consists of too few clothes. I need to work out when I’m going to drive to Chicago to grab some more and deal with my rental. Thinking about it makes me breathe too quickly.
“Okay,” I agree softly. “But I’m paying you back. Every penny.”
“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” he says, glancing at me with a faint grin.
The rest of the drive slips into silence. Not an awkward one, but a charged one. The kind that crackles beneath your skin and hums low in your stomach. I keep sneaking glances at him, at the way his forearms flex as his hands grip the steering wheel, the concentration in his jaw, the way the sun filters through the windshield and catches the dust in his hair like flecks of gold.
His scent is strong in the cab, honey and man, but thank God the window is cracked, letting in fresh air. It helps. Barely. I grip the seat belt as if it’ll save me from drowning in pheromones and don’t dare bring up the scent match thing. If I pretend it’s not there, maybe it’ll stop pulsing through my bloodstream like some kind of Omega fever.
The scenery outside helps ground me. Wide-opengreen fields stretch on either side of the road, dotted with cows and rust-colored barns. A red-tailed hawk cuts through the sky, and somewhere far off, a tractor hums. Then, just like that, the countryside gives way to the town of Honeyspur Meadow. It might as well have been plucked straight from a Hallmark movie set. Quaint. Charming. A little too perfect with its tiny whitewashed fences outside some of the buildings, flower boxes, and cheerful storefronts with hand-painted signs.
Walker pulls into a spot right out front of the Western wear store, a prime location that feels suspiciously lucky. He throws the truck in park and hops out before I can unbuckle my seat belt.
I’ve barely opened the door before he’s there, pulling it the rest of the way and offering a hand to help me down.
“I can get out of a truck by myself,” I tease, slipping my hand into his anyway. The contact is brief, but the warmth lingers.
“Sure you can,” he says, lips twitching. “But you don’t have to.”
As I step onto the sidewalk, an older couple, maybe in their sixties, walks by, hand in hand. They smile warmly at Walker, but their eyes shift to me… and linger. Their smiles widen, a little too knowing, and then they move on, whispering to each other as they go.
I clear my throat. “Friendly town.”
“Everyone knows everyone,” he replies easily, but his voice has an edge of amusement. “And they’ve got theories about everything.”
Of course they do.
Then I finally take in the store itself, larger than I expected, stretching half the block. The windows are filled with mannequins decked out in rhinestone-studded shirts, pearl-snap dresses, worn leather jackets, and enough cowboy boots to start a stampede. A pair of fringed chaps hangs dramatically near the entrance, daring someone to try them on.
The Western wear store feels like another world. Rows of boots in every color and style imaginable line one wall—snakeskin, distressed leather, embroidered roses, even a pair that glitters with gold sequins. To my left, there’s a whole section dedicated to denim, and to the right, enough hats to outfit a country music video.
Walker tips his head toward the back. “Boots first. You’ll want something sturdy for the mud. And maybe something else for when we go into town that won’t get you strange looks.”
He’s close to me again. Too close. And his scent is thicker inside, no breeze to save me this time. I try not to visibly lean toward him. Try even harder not to imagine what his mouth felt like almost pressed to mine.
He gestures for me to go ahead but stays near enough that I feel him at my back. It’s stupid how aware I am of him. I’ve known him, what? A few days?And yet he’s already embedded himself under my skin like he belongs there.
I stop at a display table of short ankle boots with low heels and nudge one with my toe. “These could work.”
“They’ll break your ankles before the week’s out.”
“Okay,” I sigh. “Function over fashion. Got it.”
We wander into the work boot section, and I can’t help but be drawn to a pair of chestnut leather boots with subtle floral embossing and a reinforced sole. Sturdy. Practical. But still… me.
“These,” I say, picking one up and turning it over.
Walker crouches down beside me and takes the boot from my hands to check the size. “These’ll do. Try them on.”
It’s ridiculous how flustered I get at something so basic. I lower onto the bench, then pull off my flip-flops, and he kneels in front of me like he’s about to propose. He doesn’t say a word, just reaches for the thin try-on socks from the box. The disposable kind every shoe shop has, the ones that feel like half a whisper against your skin.
My heart damn near stops when he reaches for my foot and slips on a sock, then the boot like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Same on the other foot.
“This isn’t a Cinderella moment,” I mumble, staring anywhere but at his face.
“No,” he agrees. “You’re more real than any fairy tale.”
The words crash into me somewhere near my pelvis. My breath stutters. I glance down, and his gaze is already on me, intense and unreadable. My cheeks flush, heat creeping up my neck.
