Song for a Cowboy (Kings of Country 2)

“Yeah.” He could hear her pain.

He’d known full well she was pushing too hard. Why had no one else spoken up? Like him, her body was her business. Her unsteady breathing tipped the scale in favor of sympathy.

Fuck it.

“Hold up.” He knelt, tugging the clinging fabric of her pantsuit up and blindly fumbling for her foot. She couldn’t have been wearing heels. That would have been easy. Boots. Boots that kept on going—higher… Like his hand. He was holding his breath as his hand slid from her calf to the side of her knee. Another two inches and he was cursing at the dark and her soft skin and the football league for this shoot and whoever’d decided to put her in boots that went halfway up her silky-smooth thigh.

He was at the end of his rope when his fingers finally grasped the elusive metal tab at the top of the zipper. With one angry tug, he yanked it down—pulling a sharp hiss from Emmy. “Dammit. Sorry.” He sighed. “Try now.” He held the sole of the boot and she slid her foot free.

“Thank you.” Her hand, searching, rested briefly against his cheek. “Oh, sorry. Sorry.” She moved, her hands landing on his shoulder for leverage.

It was a good damn thing it was dark, or everyone would have seen him lean into her hand. Everyone would know just how screwed he was. One touch was all it took to shake his resolve when it came to this woman. It wasn’t fair or right. But, hell, that was life.

“Emmy?” Melanie asked, the beam of a flashlight was moving slowly closer. “Am I close?”

Brock stood, the zap of Emmy’s hands sliding from his shoulders to his chest a live wire across each and every ner

ve. He hated that she could still do that to him. And hated how he’d missed it. The longer he stood this way, the more lost in Emmy he became. With her scent wrapping around him, her soft breathing going unsteady, and her fingers plucking at the front of his jersey…he had to stop this. Whatever this was.

Why didn’t she answer whoever the hell was coming, armed with a flashlight? Why hadn’t he?

“Emmy?” The flashlight beam swung to the right.

“If someone doesn’t get the lights back on in the next two minutes, I swear there will be hell to pay.” CiCi King’s voice was so brittle it sliced through the fragile threads holding the two of them together—frozen. “Do you hear me?”

I hear you.

His brain was spinning, images flipping faster and faster, like a possessed slideshow with no off switch.

Kissing Emmy.

Sweet promises and painful goodbyes.

Letters sent and returned and sheer desperation.

CiCi King.

That morning. That fucking morning…

And now. Emmy Lou prancing across the damn field, all smiles and head tosses.

Maybe he was hell-bent on his own destruction. It was a question he’d been asked in rehab: Was he capable of making healthy choices? It’d been a long time before Brock had been able to say yes to that question. And now? There was nothing healthy about this. Whatever empire the Kings had built, he didn’t want to be a part of it.

His hands clasped hers, ignoring the cling of her fingers, to purposefully remove her hands. If the lights came on… No. He held her hands away and stepped back, sucking in deep lungfuls of air.

“Over here,” he ground out before letting her go and taking one step back, then another—and another—until he was heading in what he hoped was the direction of the locker rooms.

Brock didn’t pause when the lights came on, blindingly white, or when he heard the director yell out, “We’re good here. We’ll do the warehouse shoot tomorrow.” Meaning he was done.

He checked his phone, ignored Connie’s “How’d it go?” text, grabbed his wallet and keys, and headed out of the stadium. He didn’t have time for this. With Dad in the hospital, Aunt Mo would need a break. After that…well, he could use a few hours of work on the ranch.

It wasn’t uncommon for there to be a few fans waiting outside—football fans. But there were more than a few fans today. Word must have leaked on the commercial shoot because most of the folk gathered outside held Three Kings posters and were calling for Emmy Lou. He couldn’t get away from her.

“Brock.” Hank King. “You got a quick second?”

He’d never been so ready to leave a place in all his life. Right now, the promise of sitting on the wide porch of his childhood home, to breathe the clean air and soak up the silence of the countryside, was the only thing keeping him steady. “Sure,” he managed. He was pretty sure his expression said the exact opposite.

From Hank’s chuckle, he guessed right. “Won’t take long. Your guitar.” Hank waved him over. “Emmy reminded me. Figured you’d want it back, since you’ve held on to it this long.” Hank King didn’t bother looking his way; he’d made his point.