Page 41 of Homebound

I squeeze him tighter. “Two.”

Another hot brush. “Three.”

I clench his hand with all my strength, and he does the same. The veins in his biceps pop, straining with tension as he seems to put all his force into our wrestling match. I’m strong, but shit, he’s a lot stronger than he used to be. Sweat beads on my forehead as I muster all my energy to win.

“That all you got, Cutler?” Wyatt grunts.

“Not even close, Patterson,” I grit out, trying my hardest to put all my force into the match, but it’s not enough.

I lose an inch.

Then another.

And another.

Until finally, the back of my hand smacks against the table. “Dammit!”

Wyatt leaps from the chair, whooping in victory, while I slump forward in defeat. “Better be ready at eight AM sharp tomorrow.” He claps his hands together. “We’ll start with farmer’s walks since your grip strength clearly needs some work.”

A smile breaks across his face, quick and bright, and I stare at it like I do every sunrise. Seeing that genuine grin stirs something in me that I thought I forgot, and suddenly, I don’t feel all too bad about losing.

Wyatt always made me notice I was breathing. Everyone breathes, but it’s this innate, mechanical thing. Not with him. He makes breathing feel like a luxury, slow, pleasurable, relaxing.

With Boone, everything between us was go-go-go, hopping from rodeo to rodeo to compete. He always wanted to go for the bigger competitions, so his competitive spirit amplified mine. My life was all about bull riding, and there was no room left for anything, or anyone, else.

It became exhausting. I barely noticed I was breathing with Boone, took it for granted, but with Wyatt, life seemed to move slow enough for me to sit and enjoy inhaling the country air.

“Damn, sug—” I stop, remembering my promise. “Patterson. When did you get to be so strong?” My knuckles pop as I flex out my hand.

He throws me a sidelong glance. “Dakota.”

“What?”

He keeps on staring at me with that same playful sparkle in his eyes. “Dakota,” he repeats as if he’s trying to explain something glaringly obvious.

“What?” I grumble, though the fight's gone out of my words. “I should’ve won. I always used to win.”

He leans against the porch railing, chewing on his bottom lip like he used to do when he was thinking hard about something. After a few breaths, he comes to a decision about whatever is on his mind. “So, here’s the thing… I might’ve let you win a time or two back in the day,” he admits sheepishly.

My mouth drops, and, for a moment, I’m speechless.

That ends quickly.

“What?” I nearly shout, but then remember Vienna sleeping, so I lower my voice. “How many times?”

All he gives me is a casual shrug.

I tilt my head and lean in close, so close that the tip of my nose nudges him. He’s still got that wild and sweet mountain laurel scent clinging to his massive body. I always loved the way he smelled, so he still must wear the same cologne. There seems to be more of the smell because there’s more of him.

I give his chest a poke, right above his heart, and I'll be damned if his pecs aren’t hard enough to break a nail.

“Patterson,” I demand, leaning toward him. He backs into the barn door. “How. Many. Times?”

He runs a hand through his blond hair, a rueful grin playing across his lips. “Just a few times. Not that many.”

“What!” I gasp, lightly slapping his chest. “Why would you do that? Did you like shoveling horse shit?”

He meets my gaze and holds it, never once looking away. “No. I hated that, but…”