Page 8 of Homebound

“Kodie Cutler,” the paramedic says, eyeing a scrape on her arm. “Damn, girl, close call. You sure look real good out there, though.”

I don’t want to hear that from his mouth.

“Oh yeah?” she says. “You were watching me ride?”

“Yeah,” he says, putting the largest Band-Aid I’ve seen over a scratch. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you, but it seems like you were having a little trouble out there, girl.”

Dammit. That’s my line—the eyes part, not the trouble part. He’s wrong. She can do anything.

“Aw, thanks,” she murmurs in her flirtiest voice, batting those long lashes. “But it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

I’d recognize her sultry voice anywhere since I had to listen to her flirt with every goddamn boy growing up while I followed around like a lovesick puppy.

“Maybe I can take you out later,” she adds.

I grimace.

He runs his tongue along his cheek. “Now, how can I say no to that? You might not be able to hang onto that bull for eight seconds, but I’m a hell of a lot easier to ride.”

I swear if she goes home with him after that pick-up line, we’re going to need to have a serious talk about standards.

She hunches forward like those words hurt more than her scratches, but she musters up a fake smirk. I know it’s fake because I know her.

“I’m sure you are,” she drawls.

That’s it—I can’t watch this anymore.

“Dakota’s got everything it takes to make it on those bulls.”

Her back goes rigid, and I think she winces a little. Her name falls from my lips like I’ve been murmuring it every day, and I need to say it again, so I do. Softer this time.

“Dakota, are you okay? I was watching out in the stands. Please look at me.”

I use the same pleading tone I always used anytime I’d beg her not to jump off the highest boulder into Inks Lake. She was always trying to one-up everyone—jump from the highest point, climb the highest tree. She never listened then, so I’m shocked when she listens now.

She slowly turns to face me, and her eyes narrow, soaking me in. I’m hoping she thinks I look different. Older. Let’s hope sexier. My shirt might have a pea stain, but it’s a little too tight, so you can see the outline of my abs. Yeah, that was intentional. She doesn’t seem to notice, no matter how much I want her to.

Her expression plummets straight into her infamous Cutler scowl. She was never one to grin all that often, which is why I used to do anything just to see her smile.

Those dimples did me in every time.

I’d let her win all our arm-wrestling matches, tickle her elbows, take her stargazing, make her flower bouquets… anything to see a flash of those dimples.

But they’re nowhere to be seen now.

I hold my breath, waiting to see what she’ll do. A slap across the cheek, maybe? I’d deserve that for leaving the way I did.

“Who’s this?” the male-model paramedic asks, sizing me up.

She flicks her eyes over me like I’m nothing but a pile of horse shit, and that more than anything hurts the most. “Not sure. I think I might be looking at a ghost, considering I haven’t heard a peep from Wyatt Patterson in over three goddamn years. How’s it feel to be back from the dead, sugar? I hear it’s a bitch to be resurrected.”

I bite my cheek to stop my grin from spreading. She’s never been all that quick with a comeback, so she must’ve been thinking about what to say for a while. “How long have you been thinking about that one?”

She points a finger at me. “No. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to pretend like you know me ’cause you don’t. Not anymore. You up and left me.”

My smile falls a second later. “I know. You’re right.”

“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?” she blurts. “No explanation? I left you voicemails every day for months. Voicemails, Patterson. Voicemails!”