Page 68 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy
They exchange one of those looks, the ones where entire conversations happen in a glance. It’s annoying and oddly endearing.
“Perhaps,” Walker says slowly, watching my reaction, “it could be.”
“If you wanted it to be,” Cash adds, and there’s something serious under his usual playfulness.
“Both of you?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
“Is that a problem?” Cash asks.
Yes, my brain supplies. Because I’m already confused enough about my feelings without adding official dates to the mix. Because dating multiple people might be normal but I’ve never done it. Because these aren’t just any men—they’re my scent matches, and that terrifies me.
“I don’t… I mean…” I gesture vaguely at them, at myself, at the general situation. “Wouldn’t that be complicated?”
“Everything worth doing usually is,” Walker says simply.
The way they’re studying me has my stomach fluttering and my resolution wavering.
“I should change,” I say, easily giving in and glancing down at my leggings and oversized shirt. Three cats weave between my legs, meowing their opinions about the interruption to their evening routine. “Can’t go to a rodeo looking like I’ve been hunched over a laptop half the day.”
“We’ll wait,” they say together, and I flee before I do something ridiculous like invite them in while I change.
I race to my bedroom, cats trailing behind like fuzzy assistants, and tear through my new wardrobe. What does one wear to a rodeo? Jeans seem too casual after seeing them dressed up. Then I spot thedress Walker bought, hanging like a temptation. Navy with silver stitching that catches the light, hitting just above my knees, with spaghetti straps and a low neckline that’s flirty without being scandalous.
I shimmy into it, the skirt part flowing, and I’m grateful again for June’s insistence on getting me basic toiletries yesterday before dinner. My hair gets a quick brush until it falls in soft waves. Lip gloss that tastes like strawberries. A spritz of perfume that probably won’t mask how nervous I am. My new boots complete the look.
When I check the mirror, I barely recognize myself. The girl looking back fits here, like this cowgirl aesthetic was hiding under my Chicago exterior all along, waiting for the right moment to emerge.
That thought should scare me more than it does.
I hurry back out, finding them leaning against Cash’s truck. It’s a massive black thing with chrome details and only a bench seat in front. No back seat. Which means…
“Where’s Ridge?” I ask, trying not to think about the seating logistics. “Isn’t he coming?”
Something passes over Walker’s face, a tightness around his eyes. “Ridge doesn’t do rodeos anymore.”
“Oh.” There’s clearly more to that story, but the way Walker’s jaw sets tells me now isn’t the time to ask.
“He’s fine,” Cash assuresme, but there’s something careful in how he says it. “Come on, sugar. Let’s show you some real Montana entertainment.”
Walker opens the passenger door and helps me climb up. The dress rides up as I slide across the bench seat despite my attempts at grace, and I catch both of them noticing. The bench that looked reasonably sized from outside becomes impossibly small once we’re all in. I’m sandwiched between them, my thigh pressed against Walker’s solid warmth on my right, Cash’s shoulder brushing mine on my left every time he moves.
Cash turns the key, and the engine rumbles to life. The radio comes on, some country station playing a song about back roads and summer nights. With the doors shut, their scents smother me in the enclosed space. Not subtle or ignorable, but overwhelming, making my head swim until I’m drowning in Alpha pheromones. I’m suddenly hot and breathing quickly.
“You okay there?” Cash glances at me as he shifts gears, speeding away from the ranch. “Looking a little flushed.”
“Just warm,” I manage, nudging Walker and gesturing for him to roll down the window a crack. The cool evening air helps, but not much when I’m pressed between two men who smell like everything my biology is programmed to want.
We drive in silence for a few minutes, the landscape rolling by outside. The sun is still up but starting its descent, painting everything golden. I watch fenceposts blur past, trying to focus on anything besides the heat radiating from both sides.
“Never been to a rodeo,” I say, needing conversation to distract me from how aware I am of every point of contact.
“You’ll love it,” Walker explains. “Though I bet it’s pretty different from Chicago entertainment.”
“Everything here is different from back home.” The truck hits a pothole and I bounce, pressing harder against Walker. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” His hand comes up to steady me, warm on my bare arm, and doesn’t immediately let go.
“Cash takes the corners like he’s racing,” Walker explains, thumb brushing my skin in what might be an accident but feels deliberate.
