Page 192 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
I tremble.
Because I didn’t want to take this cowboy home.
I want mine.
I blink hard, fighting tears. The room snaps back into focus. The lights, the music, the shouting—it all feels too loud now.
Too fake.
The glitter and smoke, and a stranger pretending to be something he could never really be.
The song ends on a long, low note, and the cowboy—the performer, not mine—stands, giving me a wink.
I’m speechless but not for the reasons he thinks.
He grips my arm and pulls my ear to his lips. “Exit is that way.”
He tips his hat before walking to the centre of the stage, to the thunderous applause and flurry of bills tossed like confetti.
The lights offstage are dim, and my boots click on the concrete as I make my way around the curtains.
I feel the heat on my skin, the ache in my chest. I’m barely holding it together.
My breath is shallow.
My heart is tight.
Every inch of me is alive, burning, and I hate it. I exhale slowly, willing the past back into its box.
But I don’t get the chance. I step off the final stair, and a rough hand catches mine and yanks me sideways.
I don’t have time to react. The shock of it cuts through my foggy thoughts, and before I can blink, my back presses against a wall, hidden behind the velvet red curtain where the world is quieter.
And there he is.
Six-foot-something with storm-brewing eyes, worn denim, and calloused hands that still make my skin remember.
His jaw clenches tight, but his eyes—Lord, those eyes—are wild. Hungry. Tortured.
“Hart?” His name is a whisper on my tongue.
Pain and anguish loom in his eyes with something I can’t quite place.
Something heavy.
Something painful.
I swallow, frozen in place.
The noise of the crowd, the music, everything is muffled. It’s just us now, alone in the dimness.
“What are you doing?” My voice comes out shaky, but I can’t seem to stop it.
He doesn’t say anything. His hand is still on my wrist, holding me gently but firmly, like he’s afraid I’ll slip away.
He presses closer, one hand braced above my head, the other still wrapped around mine, tight enough to feel my pulse.
“That song, Jade. You let someone else touch you tooursong?”
