Page 34 of Saddle and Scent
For a long moment, nobody says anything.
I watch the rain bead and run down the window, tracing lines across the glass like a finger dragging through sugar. I should get out, say thanks for his patience and encourage him to go his way, should do literally anything except sit here breathing him in like a goddamn inhaler.
When I finally crack the door, he doesn’t move to help in the slightest. It’s my toast of Karma for not accepting his aid and now allowing him to stand next to this stuck truck like a stubborn child throwing a tantrum before going into the store.
Ugh. Let’s get this over with!
I slip on the first step—slick, idiot move—and only just catch myself before I faceplant into the mud. It’s not even a spectacular save. I’m half in, half out of the truck, water dripping from my hair, flannel swallowing my frame, and there he is: solid, unmoving, gaze steady on mine.
I open my mouth to say something sharp, some retort about unnecessary heroics, but the words dry up before they make it out.
Instead, I just look at him, really look, as if staring hard enough might produce a solution to the ever-widening sinkhole that is my life. It doesn’t, but it does give me a front-row seat to the spectacle of Callum Hayes: six feet of wet, dripping, unimpressed Alpha, hair plastered flat, raindrops beading off his lashes. His arms cross over his chest, which is—yeah, okay, I’ll admit it—ridiculous in every way that matters.
The muscle’s not just for show.
It’s utility muscle, earned from a decade of wrangling stock and, apparently, delusional Omegas.
For a second, neither of us blinks.
The world narrows to rain, breath, and the tiny increments of tension that ratchet up in the air.
He shifts his weight, the movement so economical it’s almost lazy. The horse beside him chuffs and tosses its head, spraying both of us with a new wave of cold droplets.
Callum doesn’t flinch.
I do. My whole body jerks like a puppet on a string, and suddenly I’m extra aware of every inch of skin, every goosebump, every molecule of scent that’s leeching out into the storm. I try to reassert my defenses, but the wind just rips the thought away, carrying it off to whatever dimension unclaimed dignity goes to die.
Callum’s gaze drops for a split second—to the collar of his own shirt wrapped around my body, to my fingers white-knuckled at the buttons, then back up to my face. He exhales, the breath visible, a miniature fog bank.
He says, “You cold?”
It takes me a second to comprehend his question because it’s so blatantly obvious that I’m cold, that I’m tempted to let my teeth chatter away like they uncontrollably would if I wasn’t fighting the urge.
No shit Sherlock, I’m fucking cold!
I clamp down on the urge to reply with a quip about how I’m actually overheating from mortification.
Instead, I manage, “I’m fine.”
My teeth click on the f, which does nothing for my already sterling reputation.
He raises an eyebrow.
“Sure about that?”
“Positive,” I lie. “I’ve survived worse.”
“Worse than your truck breaking down in the middle of a storm, wearing a tank top that’s now see-through, and refusing help from anyone who offers?”
The air stings, and so does his accuracy.
But it’s not a challenge; it’s just a statement.
He says it like he’s reading headlines from a local paper.
I open my mouth, reach for a comeback, then remember that my best defense at this point is to stop feeding the Alpha.
But Callum is not so easily starved. He cocks his head, eyes moving over me with a new kind of scrutiny. Not the hungry, possessive kind I’m used to from townies. It’s softer, like he’s running diagnostics, cataloging which parts of me are about to give out next.
