Page 10 of The Cowboy Who Stayed

I quirk a brow at him from over my shoulder. “A cowboy asking for water over whiskey?”

“That so surprising?”

“Maybe a little. I didn’t know cowboys were so big on hydration.”

He flashes a grin as he gravitates toward the corner of the living room where my record player sits on a low wooden credenza, flanked on both sides by boxes full of vinyl. His fingers brush along the spines, gaze scanning the selection.

“I like to stay in good health. Defy those cowboy stereotypes,” he jokes. Then he nods at the boxes. “You weren’t kidding. You’ve got a serious collection.”

“That’s not even all of them. I still have a few boxes in my trunk that I haven’t brought in.”

“Etta James. Original pressing?”

“What do you know about Etta James?” I emerge from the kitchen with two glasses of water. One I hand off to him, and the other I keep for myself, taking a small sip.

He mirrors me, doing the same. “I know good music, Miss Vivica. That’s what.”

“I see. Though I guess you proved that when you were telling me about how you sometimes listen to ABBA working on the ranch.”

“Grew up on them—and a lot of artists considered old school these days. My grandma played ’em nonstop, and it taught me to appreciate all kinds of music. I’ll have to show you my collection sometime.”

I simply give him an amused smirk as I sip more water and let his suggestion hang unanswered in the air.

Tonight is a one-time-only kind of situation. But it’s cute that he’s so invested in our shared interest in music. Fitting considering his age.

“What should we play?” I ask seconds later. I set my glass down and reach for the top box. “You good with a little Sade?”

“I’d judge anybody who wouldn’t be.”

I recognize the tease in how his hazel eyes gleam and nudge my shoulder into his equally as playfully.

It isn’t the first time we’ve touched. Rhett’s hand has been hovered at the small of my back since he escorted me from The Hen House.

He’s been standing closer and closer as the night’s worn on. His cologne has invaded my space, another layer of intoxication added to the whiskey we’ve had.

I’m tipsy, but I’m not drunk. I’m well aware of the moment as I set the record player up and the first melodic notes of Sade’s voice fill the living room.

…but most of all, skin warm and heart beating fast, I’m aware how attracted I am to Rhett Dawson.

After the past few years I’ve had, it’s startling.

My marriage to Craig went down in flames. The passion died and so did our love for each other. At the same time, I was dying too.

Normal functions like hunger and arousal became foreign concepts.

My sex drive has been screwed up ever since. I haven’t had sex—or even craved it much—since before Craig left me.

Standing close to Rhett Dawson and finding myself under his gleaming gaze, a shudder racks through me. I realize how suddenly things have changed.

For the first time in a very long while, I’m attracted. I’m turned on. I’m craving…

“Beautiful,” he mutters.

I blink up at him, partially dazed. “Hmmm?”

“The music. Her voice,” he clarifies. “It’s how music’s supposed to sound.”

“Right. On vinyl. The way it was intended…”