Page 69 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy
“I drive with enthusiasm,” Cash defends, taking the next turn at a speed that has me sliding the other direction. My hand lands on his thigh for balance, and I sense his muscles tense under my palm.
“Enthusiastically trying to kill us,” I mutter, but I don’t move my hand right away.
“Never had a complaint before.” Cash grins, shifting gears in a way that flexes the muscles under my palm.
“That’s because everyone’s too terrified to speak,” Walker says dryly.
We settle into easier conversation after that, but the awareness never fades. Every bump in the road shifts us closer. Every turn has me leaning into one orthe other. Cash’s hand brushes my knee when he shifts gears. Walker’s arm ends up along the back of the seat, not quite around me but close enough that I feel its warmth.
“So,” I say as we pass a sign announcing the rodeo five miles ahead, “you two really went all out tonight. Ironed shirts and everything. Should I be impressed?”
“Cash even showered, and used soap,” Walker says solemnly.
“Revolutionary,” I agree. “What’s next, using actual shampoo instead of a bar of soap on your hair?”
“Let’s not get crazy,” Cash protests. “Baby steps.”
“Is that why you smell so good?” I ask before my brain can stop my mouth. “The soap upgrade?”
They both go still for a heartbeat.
“Do we smell good to you, sugar?” Cash’s voice drops lower, teasing.
My face flames. “I mean… objectively. You smell like… clean. Clean is good.”
“Clean,” Walker repeats, and I can hear his smile. “That’s what we smell like?”
“Stop fishing for compliments,” I mutter, slouching lower in the seat, which only presses me more firmly between them.
“Can’t help it,” Cash says. “Not often that a pretty Omega notices how we smell.”
“Pretty sure every Omega in three states notices how you smell,” I correct. “I’m certain you are noticed everywhere you go.”
“But we only care about one Omega’s opinion,” Walker says quietly, and I catch my breath.
Before I can figure out how to respond to that, we’re pulling into the rodeo grounds, passing a huge sign with the wordsThunder Creek Arena.
The parking area is a field converted to rows of vehicles, trucks as far as the eye can see. Some beat-up work trucks, others shiny and new. People mill between them, some tailgating from their truck beds.
“Wow,” I breathe as Cash finds a spot. “This is like a pickup-truck convention.”
“Welcome to a night out in Montana,” Walker announces. “Trucks, horses, and delicious food.”
“Don’t forget the beer,” Cash adds, cutting the engine. “Lots of beer.”
They come around to help me down, and I’m very aware of my dress as Cash’s hands span my waist. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, setting me gently on the ground but keeping his hands on me a beat longer than necessary.
“Ready for your first rodeo?” Walker asks, and something about how he says those words leaves my stomach burning up.
“That sounds like a line from a bad pickup attempt,” I inform him.
“Is it working?” He grins, hand finding the small of my back to guide me through the crowd.
“Jury is still out.”
They flank me as we make ourway to the entrance, close enough that their heat engulfs me. The crowd is thick, filled with families and kids, groups of teenagers trying to look cool, older couples in matching Western shirts. But I notice the looks we get, specifically from women who track Cash and Walker with hungry eyes before landing on me with considerably less warmth.
One brunette in particular actually stops mid-conversation to stare.
