Page 39 of Cowboy Superstar

“Celebrating.”

“I’ll grab the cider too.”

“I’ve never had fried chicken in the shower before,” Windsor said as she chewed the delicious, buttery bite.

“Technically, they’re fried chicken tenders today, which are perfect for the shower because they’re boneless and you can eat the whole thing.” He popped the last of his third piece into his mouth and held his hands under the spray. “No mess.”

Steam was filling the glass enclosure as hot water poured down on Windsor’s shoulder and chest. Beneath her butt and behind her back, the tiles were warm and cozy.

“You thought of everything with this bathroom, didn’t you? The heated tiles are divine.”

He grinned. “It is a nice touch. Although I had warming up after midnight foaling and cold Montana mornings on my mind. Not so much standing naked in a river in front of two dozen people with cameras and drones.”

Now that it was over, Windsor could finally breathe easy and joke.

“How many people do you think were thinking, It’s a full moon tonight, as they stared at my ass?”

He chucked as he ducked his head under the spray. “All of them.” He wiped his eyes. “Told you it was a perfect ass.”

Win smiled as the water warmed her body and soul. “I’ve actually never gotten quite so many compliments directly or indirectly about it in one day.”

“Now, it’s immortalized for all time.” He slicked his shaggy hair back behind his ears. “Just think, when we’re eighty, we can watch that movie and be like … that used to be us. I used to be a stud, and your ass was legendary.”

She tilted her head sideways. “You’re not still planning on being a stud at eighty? You know they’re playing pickleball these days at eighty-five. Don’t sell yourself short, cowboy. It’s a whole new world out there.” His laughter filled the shower as she went on. “Eighty is like the new sixty, from what I hear.”

His grin was brilliant. The man had been made for movies. “I fucking love you, Win. All right, at eighty, I’ll still be a stud. But only if you’re with me, telling me eighty is the new sixty.”

Windsor froze beneath the hot spray.

Forty-five years. He was talking about forty-five years from now. Her heart thundered against her ribs. The thought was terrifying … or was it?

The years mentally stretched out in her mind … and at the rate she was going, before she had arrived in Montana, they’d looked bleak and lonely. But now … the thought of laughing and eating fried chicken and walking along the riverbank for the next half century sounded so much better than anything she had ever imagined.

Windsor never planned to marry again. Her first marriage had been for all the wrong reasons, toxic while she was in it, and a disaster to get out of it.

But she didn’t want to be eighty and calling Bo her boyfriend still.

It was like looking into the future, and for the first time, she didn’t see herself alone. The possibility of something real and lasting with him seemed like a far superior alternative to anything she’d ever considered before.

“Did I freak you out? Talking about being eighty together?”

Windsor looked up to find his aquamarine gaze thoughtful.

“Maybe for a few seconds. Knee-jerk reaction … but if you want the truth …”

“You know I do.”

“Being eighty without you sounds a lot worse.”

Heat and something else flared in his gaze. “You mean that.”

It wasn’t a question, but Windsor nodded anyway.

“Come here, sweetheart. I want to hold you. Don’t worry; I won’t get your hair wet.”

The fact that he’d noticed she was trying to keep it dry and cared sent a streak of warmth shooting through Windsor. That was the kind of man she wanted to spend the next forty-five or fifty years with.

She slid down the bench and into his arms as he scooted toward her.