Page 56 of Homebound

How is he so casual about this? Is he worried about ruining our friendship? What if the sex is terrible?

Oh my god, I bet he’d spread flower petals on the sheets, and we’d make sweet, sweet love to some classic sixties love song like “Moon River” by Henry Mancini.

I can’t do this.

I should think this through, but I want him, and it’s becoming a problem. Even when he does something sweet and dad-like, I’m still reminded of the shower incident.

He cuts up a watermelon for me and Vi? I’m thinking about him naked.

He tugs on that Rodeo Dad T-shirt? I’m thinking about that shower again.

Every time he makes banana pancakes, I watch the way his back muscles flex beneath his T-shirt, wondering what it would feel like to scrape my nails against his skin. I never used to look at him like that, and it’s hard to reconcile my best friend with the man I saw naked in the shower.

He’s my friend, but now he’s my sexy friend, and I can’t sleep with him because there’s no such thing as casual with a man like him, but oh, am I tempted.

So tempted.

We pass the next week knocking into each other like those bumper cars we used to ride at the rodeo fair, except he doesn’t seem the least bothered by the encounters. If anything, he’s all smirks and winks as he saunters around shirtless.

I need some space to breathe.

By the time the Sisterdale rodeo rolls around on Saturday, I’m wound tight, and I’m ready to let out some of this frustration on a bull. I’m riding Tacoma today, and it’s exactly what I need, a solid adrenaline rush to get out this pent-up energy.

“You seem stiff. Did you do your warm-up, darlin’?” my dad drawls.

I can barely hear him over the bustling sounds of the rodeo. We’re in the back pens, warming up with the other cowboys by the animal stalls.

I strap on my spurs. “Course I warmed up. I always do.”

“I’m just checking on you.” Using his boot, he scoots a small hay bundle to the side as cowboys scurry around the snorting horses. “You worked on those visualization techniques we talked about, right?”

“Yes, Pops,” I repeat with a hefty sigh. “I visualized not falling off the bull. Not sure how much good that’ll do, though.”

It’s the fifth time he’s mentioned those visualization techniques since we arrived at the rodeo. Colt Cutler puts the over in overprotective when it comes to me, but he tries not to show it. I tighten my leather chaps with jittery hands, trying to visualize staying on the back of angry snorting bulls.

He dusts his hands on his jeans. “And you’ve been working on your grip strength with that boy, right?”

I shoot him a salty look that he shoots right back. “That boy has a name.”

Wyatt and I are finally on better terms, but my dear ol’ dad is not agreeing to those terms. It doesn’t seem to matter how much he’s helped me, and he’s helped me a lot in the gym. He might be a sweetheart in the streets, but he’s relentless when it comes to farmer’s walks. And when his voice takes on that gritty, low rumble? I start sweating for a whole different reason.

“Yes, Pops. I’ve been training with ‘that boy’ every morning in the gym, so I’m good and ready for today. ‘That boy’ is out in the stands right now.”

He chews his bottom lip. “And he’s treatin’ you right?”

That shower inconveniently pops into my head again.

All those muscles.

All that water.

I clear my throat. “Yes. He’s being a perfect gentleman, like always,” I say, scanning the crowded stands for Wyatt. He shouldn’t be hard to find considering he towers over most people.

“Good,” he fires off. “Now, no more talk about boys—”

“Boy,” I correct. “Singular.”

He guffaws, and a few cowboys jump at the noise. My dad doesn’t laugh often, but when he does, it makes an impact. “Ah, please. Back in the day, I was just like you, darlin’, so you can’t fool me.”