Page 44 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy
“Fits?” he asks, voice lower than before.
I nod. “Perfectly.”
He helps me with the other boot, and by the time I’m standing again, I feel steadier on my feet, but not in my head. Not in my heart. Everything in me is on fire, and he hasn’t even touched me more than necessary.
I take a few strides and know these boots are perfect.
We browse a bit more. He’s picky and has opinions on materials, cut, and durability, but it’s weirdly comforting to watch him be so serious about it. I end up with a few shirts, a durable denim jacket, and four pairs of jeans that don’t hug my hips like a vise. It’s practical, but… kind of sweet, the way he guides me without taking over. I also make sure to grab half a dozen pairs of thongs, as I’m in desperate need of new underwear.
Walker pays with an Amex black card as I gather the bags and walk toward the door.
Outside, the breeze has picked up, and the late-afternoon sun paints everything gold. It’s too pretty, too picturesque, and I’m too caught up in the way Walker lingers near me even now, close enough that his arm brushes mine as we walk. He collects my bags and puts them into his truck, then we arestrolling toward a shop with pastel-painted trim and a big glass window lined with mannequins in sundresses, cowgirl boots, and sparkly fringe. The hand-painted sign overhead readsThe Gilded Cactusin gold script, with a tiny cartoon cactus wearing a tiara next to it.
It’s adorable.
Inside, the place smells like vanilla candles and clean linen. It’s huge too. Racks of flowy skirts, denim, and floral prints line the space, with a few cowhide chairs scattered in corners beside full-length mirrors. Then I spot more racks of clothes way in the back. Soft acoustic music plays from an old stereo behind the counter, where two girls glance up the second we step inside.
“Walker,” one of them says with a grin, dragging out the syllables like they taste sweet. She’s all legs and lip gloss, blonde braid swinging as she leans on the counter. “Don’t tell me you’re finally here for a makeover.”
The brunette beside her perks up too, bright-eyed and clearly just as delighted. “Or maybe you’re here to finally buy that flannel we tried to talk you into last winter?”
Walker lifts a hand in greeting but doesn’t stray far from me. “Actually, she’s the one doing the shopping today.”
Both girls turn their eyes to me then, and I swear their smiles twitch—not mean, exactly, but assessing.
“Ohhh,” the blonde drawls. “We’re gonna have fun.”
The brunette nudges a rack closer. “Shout if you need a dressing room. We’ve got three in the back. The middle one has the best mirror.”
Walker shoots me a reassuring smile, as if to say he’ll be close, then peels off to browse a table of belts and boots, giving me space.
I let out a breath and drift toward the dresses.
That’s when I see a deep blue one with silver threading along the hem, fitted through the bodice, then flaring at the skirt in soft, swooping waves that might graze my calves. The kind of thing you wear to a barn dance, or maybe a date you don’t want to end. I grab it and keep on shopping. Before I know it, I have a massive pile in my arms, and the shop assistants are nowhere to help. So I head into the middle dressing room and pull on the blue number first. Then I turn in front of the mirror, startled by my reflection.
It hugs me in all the right ways, makes me look… different. Softer. Brighter. Like someone who hasn’t been battling for an easier life for as long as she can remember.
Which is why I’m trying really hard not to think about Walker.
Not his stupid crooked smile. Not the way he looked at me when I tried on boots, like he was seconds from devouring me whole.
I step out of the dressing room.
Walker is lounging in one of the cowhide chairs outside my dressing room, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, his sinful smile aimed straight at me like it has its own gravitational pull.
His posture straightens. Eyes darken. Mouth parts. And for a few loaded heartbeats, he just stares.
“You’re fucking stunning.”
Not the dress. He’s staring at my face.Me.
Heat rushes up my neck. “You don’t think it’s too much?”
“No,” he says, low and growly. “It’s spectacular.”
It’s impossible to ignore the way his gaze drags up and down my body. Or how he shifts in that ridiculous cow-print chair, legs spread like he owns the whole damn store.
I duck my head and mutter something about trying on more outfits. He doesn’t push. Just nods, silent as I disappear behind the curtain.
