Page 114 of Colt

I can’t imagine the pain of that kind of betrayal and heartbreak. No wonder Colton’s always braced for a fight. No wonder he’d resist change like his life depended on it. To have his world suddenly upended that way⁠—

“The cancer was aggressive. She was young, no family history, so it took us totally off guard.” He clears his throat. “She died just before Dean turned three.”

I don’t know what to do. What to say. I just slide the hand I have on his leg up and down. Up and down.

I’m here. I’m sorry. That sucks.

He puts his hand over mine, gliding his fingers between my own so that they weave together. The scrape of his calluses against my skin sends a shock wave of awareness through my center.

“So you see, it’s complicated,” he says, voice gruff. “My situation.”

I nod. “I see that.”

“Actually.” He gives my hand a squeeze. “That’s a lie. My past is complicated. But you—this, how I feel right now—that’s not complicated at all. Never would’ve guessed that’d be the case, but…”

“But it’s awesome.” I pause. Think. “Maybe because it’s so unexpected.” I nudge him, smiling. “Does that mean you’re on board with the rebrand too?”

He laughs. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Baby steps, honey.”

But he’ll try.

He is trying. And listening. And pampering me to an absurd degree.

I feel myself getting choked up. Crying is totally inappropriate first-date behavior, even though this doesn’t feel like a first date at all. We seemed to have zoomed right past small talk to dive headfirst into the deep end.

It’s refreshing.

It’s terrifying.

It’s everything I didn’t know I needed.

The server appears, asking us if we’re ready to place our orders.

We both get the filet, with sides of soy-glazed brussels sprouts and twice-baked potatoes. It’s the most delicious meal I’ve had yet. Or maybe it just seems that way because Colton and I talk about everything and nothing as we eat, leaning closer and closer until our bodies are touching shoulder to shoes. Or boots, in our case.

Moving between the hard stuff and the silly stuff, the things that still hurt and the things we can laugh about now, feels strangely effortless. Like there’s no judgment here. No expectations.

No pressure to be anything but our very messy selves.

We talk for a while. So long that I lose track of time, only vaguely aware of the way the light outside the windows fades to black. Hartsville may be a teeny-tiny town, but the restaurant is buzzing. People wait at the nearby bar for tables to open up, sipping their Shiners and tequila as they chat, laugh, flirt.

A George Strait song plays. Colton insists we get dessert, then puts his hand on my thigh and moves his pinkie finger up, up, a wash of heat settling between my legs.

I grab his forearm, my skin tightening at the thick, solid feel of him here. “So are we going dancing, or…”

That dark chuckle I know so well. “No one wants to go back to your place more’n me.” His pinkie arcs over my bare skin, so close to where I want him I could scream. “Trust, honey, Imma lay you down. But I want you to experience the Rattler, just once. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Okay. Can we make it kinda quick, though?”

Colton presses the tip of his pinkie to my underwear. “At the Rattler, yes. But afterward? I’m takin’ my time with you.”

Oh God oh God oh God.

“Don’t you have to get back⁠—”

“Tate and Nash are liable to fall asleep on my couch and stay there all night after Dean goes down. We got time.”

Time he wants to spend with you.