Page 22 of Sunday's Best

Eight

Another night. Another location. Another group of cowboys drinking around a crackling fire.

At least this is our last stop before we head home. I can see why Holden’s tired of this lifestyle and ready to settle down. I’ve been to a handful of rodeos and I’m over it. In fact, the only reason I’m here now, rather than curled up in bed with a book, is because I didn’t trust myself not to text Holden.

Considering the way he handled our kiss, I didn’t know what to expect after the sexting, mutual masturbation moment. But the following morning, I woke up to find a mug of coffee waiting for me. We sat on opposite sides of the dinette, our knees occasionally knocking, while I read and he scrolled on his phone. When seven a.m. rolled around, he was herding Logan and me into the truck. And that was that.

I have no clue where Holden and I stand. Probably never will, given his voiced disdain about talking through things.

The small fire throws sparks into the dark, and a wispy smoke ring encircles the distant waxing moon. I shuffle my flip-flops around in the dusty gravel underfoot and sip my lukewarm vodka cooler. I’m both pretending to be listening to the conversation around me and pretending not to catalogue Holden’s every movement.

He’s across the fire, elbows resting on his knees, listening to a girl talk his ear off about barrel racing. She’s pretty enough. Prettier when she smiles, which is something that’s happening frequently. Almost as often, her fingers brush his forearm.

It totally doesn’t bother me.

“Earth to Sunday.” Logan nudges my knee with his. He uses the drink in his hand to gesture toward where some guys are playing beer pong on a folding plastic table. “Wanna play?”

I groan in response.

Holden’s brunette sweeps her long, messy braid over her shoulder to see what Logan’s pointing at. “Oh, I’m so good at beer pong. The four of us should play.”

Holden doesn’t take his eyes off the flickering fire. “No, thanks.”

“You two are fucking boring,” Logan says. “Bet both of you would rather be in bed right now.”

If I wasn’t constantly stealing glances at Holden, I’d probably miss the way his focus shifts to me at that comment. I know we’re both thinking about what happened the last time we were alone in our separate beds.

“Come play with me,” the brunette coos. Her nails rake over Holden’s bare forearm. Fuck her. Yeah, it’s not her fault I kind of want to throw a handful of hot coals at her, because he isn’t even mine to lay claim to. But fuck her all the same.

Except don’t fuck her, Holden. Please.

“I’ll play.” I stand, smoothing my hands over the wrinkled fabric of my summer dress. As expected, Logan’s quick to hop up beside me, and he gives my butt a light squeeze. Holden clocks it. Selfishly, I love that.

“I will, too,” he concedes.

We take our places on either end of the table, and the guys get to work setting up rows upon rows of plastic cups.

“I’m Raquel, by the way,” the bouncy cowgirl says.

I give her a thin smile. “I’m Sunday.”

“Like the day or like the dessert?”

“Like the day,” I cooly reply.

“Why Sunday?” Raquel asks. I can’t help but notice the way Holden’s ears perk up, too.

“The guy who’s probably my father was named Domingo, which means Sunday. God only knows why my mom thought she should name me after some guy she slept with one time, or why she didn’t go with any of the million feminine variations of his name.”

Logan throws an arm around me. “She’s as sweet as the dessert, though.”

Holden forcefully exhales through his nose. “Can we get this game over with?”

I reach for the sticky, plastic ball resting on the dirty table and line up my shot.

“You got this, babe.” Logan winks. “Don’t embarrass me.”

Holden’s jaw tightens as he grabs his drink and takes a long pull.