Page 50 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy
Walker chuckles, running a hand through his dark hair. “Funny story…”
“Real funny,” I state flatly.
Ridge crosses his arms, waiting.
Walker gives us the quick rundown about helping Sophia buy clothes and then somehow ending up in the changing room with her, on his knees, between her legs. The bastard is trying to play it casual, but I can see the satisfied gleam inhis eyes.
“Oh, you just fell into that position, right?” I ask, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “What, did you trip over your own feet and accidentally land face-first in paradise?”
Even Ridge cracks up at that. “Yeah, Walker, that’s some real graceful navigation there. Next you’ll tell us you were just helping her tie her shoes.”
Walker’s cheeks actually flush a little. “Look, she’s my scent match. Ours, most likely.” He glances at Ridge meaningfully. “I think yours too, but that’s a different battle. When you get near her… fuck me, but I couldn’t resist. I’ve never experienced anything like this.”
I cross my arms and lean back against his truck. “Spill it. And I want details. Because I’ve been wondering if she’s a natural redhead since the day she walked onto the ranch.”
Walker’s face goes even redder. “Jesus, Cash.”
“What? It’s a legitimate question.” I drum my fingers against my crossed arms. “Come on, don’t leave us hanging. What’s she taste like? Sweet as she smells?”
“You’re both sick,” Ridge says, but he’s listening intently.
Walker runs a hand through his hair, making it even messier. “Look, it just happened, okay? And yeah, Cash, she’s a natural redhead. The softest damn hair I’ve ever felt against my face.”
The mental image that creates makes my jeans uncomfortably tight. “Fuck me sideways.”
He shakes his head. “I’ve never lost control like that. Never wanted anything as much as I wanted to make her come apart under my tongue.”
Ridge has gone very still. “Both of you are certain about this scent match thing?”
“As sure as I can be,” Walker says gently. He understands this is hard for Ridge to hear, knowing he might never be able to confirm it himself. “But I think you’ll realize when you’re close to her. There are other signs.”
Ridge just shrugs.
“Listen, man,” Walker continues. “Like the way every instinct you’ve got screams at you to protect her. Like how you can’t think about anything else when she’s around. Like how you want to claim her so badly it makes even your teeth ache.”
“And here I thought I was just developing an unhealthy obsession,” I say.
“Oh, you are,” Walker says with a grin. “We all are.”
“So what happened after?” I ask. “Did you… finish the job?”
“Afterward, she panicked,” Walker explains, his expression sobering. “Ran out of there so fast she practically left skid marks. I think it scared her, how good it was between us.”
“Can’t blame her for that,” I say. “Probably didn’t expect to get her world rocked in a clothing store’s changing room.”
“No, probably not.” Walker pushes off his truck. “But she’s ours, whether she wants to admit it or not.And I’m not letting her run back to Chicago. Can’t leave the animals at the shelter, and I sure as hell can’t leave my Omega. Simple solution to me—she has to stay.”
Ridge adjusts his hat, a sure sign he’s thinking hard about something. “And if she fights us on it?”
“Then we convince her to stay,” I say simply. “However long it takes.”
We start walking toward the back entrance of the diner, our boots echoing off the brick wall. The music and voices from inside grow louder.
“All right, enough talking,” Ridge says as we reach the rear door to Maggie’s Diner. “Let’s go see what our girl is up to.”
We all remove our hats, and the moment we step inside, I’m transported back to the Old West. Maggie’s hasn’t changed since we moved into town and started coming here. The walls are covered in dark wood paneling, and every inch is decorated with vintage Western gear, old spurs, faded photographs of cattle drives, branding irons, and even a couple of antique rifles mounted above the bar. The floors are original hardwood, scarred and worn smooth by decades of cowboy boots. Red checkered tablecloths cover round wooden tables, and mason jar lights hang from the ceiling, casting everything in a warm, amber glow.
A massive stone fireplace dominates one wall, unlit now but surrounded by leather chairs that have seen better days. The bar runs along the back wall, mannedby Maggie herself, a woman in her sixties with steel-gray hair and arms like tree trunks from lifting beer kegs. She’s got a no-nonsense attitude that keeps even the rowdiest cowboys in line.
