Wrangled by the Watchful Cowboy

“Meaning, you and my brother need to stay out of my business.”

“You’re the one who pulled me into this mess last Thursday with that crazy story about us going to the dance together. All I did was try to make your lie look believable.”

Guess that clarifies how he feels about me. No use baring my soul. Especially when it’s probably a fleeting attraction, instead of love.

“You’re officially off the hook. We’ll tell everyone we’re not dating.”

“And what about McCaffrey?”

“Not your problem. I shouldn’t have made up that crazy story.” She sat forward, preparing to escape before she blurted out something she would regret.

“Wait! Don’t go.” His hand touched her arm. “I’m sorry I said that.”

“No need to apologize. It’s the truth.”

“No, it’s not.” He cleared his throat, swallowing audibly. “The truth is… when that whole fiasco started, I was on my way to ask you to the dance.”

Her breath caught in her throat. What was he saying? Then she remembered his motivation.

“I don’t need a date to the dance. Tell Nick I can take care of myself.” Blinking at unexplained tears, she surged out of the swing, aiming her feet toward the stables.

But Cord followed on her heels, albeit with a few moans of pain. “It had nothing to do with Nick. I was planning to invite you because I like you.”

Stunned, she stopped in her tracks, and he moved to stand in front of her. The air grew so thick, she couldn’t get it into her lungs. With shallow breaths, she studied his well-worn boots, mostly to avoid his gaze.

“It’s possible I actually wanted you to ask me.” Her pulse raced. Had she actually said that out loud?

“How possible is possible?”

“I’m guessing seventy percent. Maybe seventy-one.”

His head bent low, and she spied his swollen smile. The scratches didn’t hide his dimples. “I’ll take those odds. They’re way better than my chance of making eight seconds.”

His hand reached for hers, but she tucked it safely in her back pocket. “I can’t date anyone right now. Not until I graduate.”

He made a strangled sound. “That’s almost a year from now.”

She risked a quick glance and saw him push his hand through his dark hair, his brows bent with frustration.

“We could be friends.” She tried to make it sound like a great compromise.

“Friends.” He rubbed the scruff of beard on his face. “Does your definition of friends include kissing?”

“No,” she choked, swallowing a lump of air.

“How about dinner? Walks? Horse rides? Picnics?”

His boots scooted closer, and she took a step back.

“That sounds an awful lot like dating.”

“Not necessarily,” he said. “I’ve done all those things with friends. Haven’t you?”

“I guess so.”

“What if I bought you an ice cream bar? Right now?”

A grin fought its way onto her face. “Then I might like you seventy-two percent.”