Page 159 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy
“You okay?” I ask, though seeing my usually confident Alpha anxious is oddly endearing.
“Just… not used to this.” He gestures vaguely at the building. “Talking on the radio. Being interviewed.”
I laugh. “Cash, you literally charm every person you meet.”
“That’s different. That’s one-on-one, not thousands of people listening.”
I pull out my phone, showing him my latest blog post. “Speaking of thousands, I told my followers we’re going live at two. They’re already commenting about setting reminders to tune in.”
He groans, letting his head fall back against the headrest. “Well, hell, sugar… no pressure.”
“They already love you,” I explain, reaching over to poke his side where I know he’s ticklish. He squirms away, catching my hand. “Remember when I posted that photo of just the back of you fixing the fence? Shirtless? I got three hundred marriage proposals for you.”
“You got what now?”
“Oh, did I not mention that?” I grin innocently. “My personal favorite was from someone who offered to trade her prize-winning cow for one date with you.”
“A cow?”
“A prize-winning cow. Apparently, she’s worth quite a bit.”
Despite his nerves, he laughs, bringing my hand to his lips. “Only prize I want is sitting right here.”
“Smooth talker.”
“Learned from the best.” He kisses each knuckle slowly, deliberately, and my stomach does that familiar flip. “You sure about this? We could still leave. Tell them I got food poisoning.”
“From my cooking?”
“I’d never blame your cooking. Maybe Walker’s. Remember that experimental chili?”
“The one that made Ridge cry actual tears?”
“That’s the one.”
We’re both laughing now, the tension easing. This is what Cash does—deflects with humor when he’s uncomfortable. But underneath, I can still feel his anxiety through our bond.
“Hey.” I squeeze his hand. “Just be yourself. That’s all they want. The real Cash who makes terrible cowboy puns and can’t go five minutes without touching me and who once spent three hours teaching the kittens to fetch.”
“He still won’t do it consistently.”
“Not the point.” I lean across the console, cupping his face. “You’re amazing. And this interview is going to help save our home. We can do this.”
He stares at me for a long moment, blue eyes soft. “What would I do without you?”
“Probably still be letting Brittany drape herself all over you.”
“Hell, don’t remind me.” He shudders dramatically, then checks his watch. “Okay. Let’s do this before I lose my nerve.”
The station is exactly what you’d expect from rural Montana radio… Wood paneling that hasn’t been updated since the seventies, signed photos of local celebrities, mostly rodeo riders and one country singer I’ve never heard of, and a receptionist desk that’s currently unmanned but has a bell with a handwritten sign sayingRing for Service!
Cash dings it, his other hand finding mine immediately.
A man appears from a back hallway, late forties, beer belly straining against a KMTN polo shirt, face lighting up when he sees us.
“You must be Cash and Sophia! I’m Dave, afternoon drive time.” He pumps our hands enthusiastically. “Been following your story online. It’s got so many people invested. Big corporation against the farmer. Anyway, follow me so we can get started.” He guides us down the narrow hallway, past walls covered in old concert posters and faded bumper stickers.
The studio is smaller than my closet back in Chicago was. Two microphones face each other across a scarred wooden table, an ancient soundboard taking up one wall. There’s barely room for three people, and when we squeeze in, Cash’s thigh presses against mine.
