The Cowboy's Texas Heart (The Dixons of Legacy Ranch 3)

“Careful, you’ll start to sound like me, downplayin’ things.”

She grinned at his typical brooding face and dry joke, but put her hands back into position as he strode up behind her. She could hear his approach, feel the dip in the floorboards beneath the rug, feel her reeling toward him even though she remained sitting, like tension on a fishing line. Perhaps reeling himself to her.

His cedar scent wafted off of him. She inhaled, letting it fill her lungs and seep into her limbs as she focused on the keyboard, sensing him shift in her periphery. He whipped up the guitar and dropped the strap over his neck, then sat on the edge of the bench and kicked his legs out. He strummed a chord, then another, twisting the appropriate tuning keys, picking out the Nocturne melody. She gazed up at him, grinning.

He continued to refrain the same part as if waiting for her to follow suit and join in with him, his fingers growing comfortable with the melody enough to stylize some folksy flourish.

“Could you be any more attractive?” she teased.

He grinned that easy grin. In fact, this one seemed bashful? Come to think of it, he hadn’t forced a grin in a while. Each time he let loose, each time he revealed another part of himself to her, she knew that if they ever broke up, it was going to hurt. Far worse than Justin asking for his ring back. And she wouldn’t be able to bear the pain of abandonment. God, what was she doing?

She closed her eyes, played, as the guitar harmonized instead of competed. The sound rolled over her. She dared to unlock the memories, crack the lid to peer inside the past, tuned out her parents’ questions and envisioned Monarch sliding onto the bench like Tyler had just done, auburn-brown waves cinched in a bun straight from ballet. They’d been three years apart, and yet, they’d always been close. With the twang of Tyler’s country intonations added to the classical piece that no doubt would cause Chopin to rise from the grave in a mighty fluster and flail his hands, she leaned into the trills until the song was brought to a close and he strummed, letting the guitar resonate.

She gazed at him as the pedal clung to her chord and shoulder-bumped his arm.

His eyes were hard on her. As if tuned in to her every move, every flutter of the pulse in her neck. “Perfection,” he drawled.

She felt his breath by her ear, a possessive undertone intelligible by the soft rumbling in his throat. It had been more than that, but his hands were sifting into her hair and angling her face to his as his lips came down upon hers so swiftly, she lost the thread of thought she’d been weaving.

“How do you get more interesting every minute I know you?” he murmured.

His tongue pushed for entry, swiping across hers. His hands migrated down her neck, fingers traced over her shoulders. The neck of the guitar knocked against her as he adjusted his angle and his elbow hit clashing piano keys.

“Is there anything you can’t do?” she breathed. He’d taken striving for perfection to a whole new level. “No wonder your brothers call you Perfect Ty.”

“I can’t play soccer for shit.” His reply elicited a laugh, which he swallowed as his mouth remained on hers. “Bunch of babies tripping each other and moaning on the ground like they broke every bone in their body. But my boys love it, and apparently so do you. Another reason they’re gonna love you.”

His nose trailed over her shoulder, breathing deeply, and his cedar was so fresh and spicy, she could get drunk off it—

“Why butterflies?” His words, along with his fingers trailed over her back.

She recoiled, zapped from the moment, but this time, his grip tightened.

“Talk.” Unlike all the other times he’d brought it up, he didn’t back off this time.

“Are you trying to knock down my guard?” she breathed, attempting a playfulness that fell flat as her hand slipped over her belly.

“Are you trying to keep a guard up?” he asked. “Retreating doesn’t seem like the girl who jumps headfirst into everything without a spreadsheet.”

She shuddered, as his hands took to gentler roving. One finger toyed with the strap of her blouse, hooking it aside so he could press kisses to her collarbone, the other hand migrated over hers on her belly. Stilled. Then squeezed.

“My sister’s name was Monica,” she said on a rush, but her voice trembled. She cleared it. “But she was so pretty and danced so well, we always called her Monarch, like a butterfly.”

He pulled back at this, tipped his gaze to hers, leaning into her space to inspect her eyes.

“Was?”

She nodded. Their eyes connected. And dammit, that tingling in her nose, stinging in her eyes, told her she was misting when she wasn’t a crier. She shrugged. Forced a smile through the water brimming behind her eyelids. His gaze grew alarmed, traveling over her furrowed brow.

“She died.”