Page 46 of Slow Hands Cowboy

She had been thinking about the girl in that viral video, the girl that she had detached herself from out of necessity.

That girl was headed into town to go to dinner. Except now, she was so deeply aware that it was her, and she was there.

Everyone would be staring.

She would be with Walker.

“Circle the block again,” she said.

“No. I just found this parking space. I’m not losing it now.”

“I think I’m actually going to have a heart attack,” she said, pressing her fingertips to her chest and pushing deeply, like that was going to give her an idea of whether or not her heart was handling this well or not.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m checking to make sure I’m not having a heart attack.”

“I don’t think you can just touch your chest to figure out whether or not you’re having a coronary episode. Also, you’re not. You have anxiety.”

“I don’t have anxiety.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “You don’t think you have anxiety?”

“No.”

She just had to make sure that everything was perfect all the time, but it generally was, and her deep, driving desire to make it so helped her get it done, as did the deep fear of what would happen to her if she failed. Was that anxiety? She thought it was just being Type A. Very functional. A very competent human being. That wasn’t anxiety.

Maybe she was having a little bit of anxiety now, but who could blame her?

“I’m not anxious,” she said. “Usually.”

“Okay,” he said, clearly not believing her. “If you say so.”

He pushed open the driver’s side door of the truck, and got out, and she practically reached after him as he closed it, her hands extended outward, fingers flexing. Like she could stop him.

And then a moment later he was around on her side, opening the door. “Come on,” he said.

“I don’t think I’m ready to do this.”

“And this is the exact moment that we need to do it. We can’t let any more time pass. We have to do this now. Get out of the damn car.”

He reached around her, and pressed the button on her seatbelt, his heavy, well-muscled arm resting over her lap.

And suddenly she felt like she had an entirely new problem.

Because it was like he had struck a match against her skin.

She was hot. On fire. And very aware of his presence.

She could smell his aftershave, his skin. And she could hear the sound of her own heart beating, echoing in her ears.

Like she was dying. Fading away from consciousness, from this planet.

Then he reached out, and took her hand, drawing her out of the truck cab.

Her throat was dry. And she ended up standing right there on the sidewalk, in front of him, with only a couple of inches between their bodies.

“So kind of you to join me for dinner tonight,” he said, a hint of teasing in his voice, a smile playing on his lips, but something dangerous underneath all of it.