After a brief shopping trip—my suggestion for anonymity’s sake—Easton managed to secure us the entirety of a tiny patio of a Mexican restaurant facing the street with just enough greenery to keep us out of view of prying eyes. Nestled away from the public while managing to be a part of it all, we’ve spent the afternoon alternating sipping frosted schooners of light beer and water while stuffing our faces with tortilla chips and salsa.
Even with the crowds gathering on the street for the cattle drive, I feel relatively safe we’ll be undiscovered. No one would ever suspect Easton Crowne to be wearing a ten-gallon cowboy hat with the wide brim pulled down just above his Ray-Bans. Not only that, he covered his T-shirt with a western embroidered shirt and finished his look off with black, metal-tipped cowboy boots.
“Your disguise is ridiculous,” I taunt, sipping from my schooner. Easton gives me a pointed look as the fringe hanging from my Dallas Cowboys cheerleader vest dances across the top of the salsa. The traditional long-sleeved colt blue shirt tied just beneath my breasts bares every inch of my midriff down to my low riding jeans, and I find myself thankful for the thousand Easton-induced crunches that fueled my recent workouts.
Adjusting my solid white Stetson, I stretch out my legs to admire my new boots. Boots that cost a pretty penny and won’t go to waste.
The feeling in the air between Easton and me has been breezy since we managed to make it out of Dallas in one piece. With sound check and set up out of the way, we find ourselves with a day’s worth of hours to just be together without the threat of any other outside worries. It’s here we find our groove, with no pressure to define our relationship. My guard is comfortably lowered, even though every passing minute with Easton continues to threaten said guard’s existence.
“Aren’t you going to tell me I look ridiculous?” I ask, gripping the top of the solid white hat currently covering my frizzy ringlets and dipping the brim toward him in proper cowgirl etiquette.
“No,” his grin disappears into his beer as he sips it.
“Why?”
“Because you don’t.”
“Seriously?” I push back my chair and stand, waving a hand over myself with exaggeration. “There’s being nice, and then there’s charity. I spent a fortune on this shit, and I’ll never wear it again. Well, aside from the boots.”
“I would have paid for them, Natalie.”
“But we settled that argument…quick,” I draw imaginary six-shooters from my hips and blow them out, “fast…” I flip and holster my fake guns back at my hips, “and in a hurry, didn’t we there, partner?”
His nostrils flare in response, and I’m pretty sure if he lowered his glasses, I would be on the receiving end of a dead hazel stare. I must admit, it’s so fucking sexy to see him riled up, despite his overall look being completely foreign in nature. Unsurprisingly, it works on him. Then again, the man could decide to wear nothing but a banana leaf to hide his junk and would still look mouthwatering.
“Natalie?” Easton prompts.
“Yup?” I check out briefly, the summoned image of naked Easton and his banana leaf disappearing as I focus on him.
“Worth it?” He asks, his tone full of smug assumption. I blame the heat. Heat makes people crazy. Case in point, I’m parading around like an idiot in downtown Fort Worth playing cowgirl, waiting to see a parade of cows.
“Worth it?” Easton repeats.
“I already decided it was.” I take another sip of my beer. “Oh, I know. I could wear this again role-playing with my future husband, who will be a Dallas Cowboys’ fan.”
He chuckles. “Good luck finding one of those.”
“You better have meant a Cowboys’ fan, not a husband, and blasphemy, sir. That’s America’s team you’re talking about.”
“Only claimed by Cowboys’ fans.”
“I’ll bet you they win the Super Bowl this year.”
“I’ll take you up on that bet.”
“So, you do know football?”
“I’ve observed enough to know that most people love or loathe the Cowboys, more the latter.”
“Whatever. Cowboys aside, not being a Longhorns’ fan, that would be the true nonstarter. Wha, wha, whaaaa,” I mock in my best game show buzzer impersonation.
“That’s a real tall order, Butler,” he mutters dryly. “Don’t sell yourself short or anything.”
“Hey, grumpy, take a drink. The heat is making you irritable.”
“Or maybe it’s the annoying-as-hell, buzzing, blue bee that can’t seem to sit still.”
“Fine,” I sigh, “The show’s over, but just know you missed the grand finale,” I tease, reclaiming my seat and discarding my hat. “Today is a good day.” I take another sip of my beer, the light buzz filtering through me as I soak in an authentic Texas experience with my favorite rock star. “Though, I don’t get the appeal of this lifestyle.” I glance through the iron bars, which sit just below lined planters full of thick green ivy, and spot two cowboys mounting thoroughbreds across the street dressed in full riding gear, chaps included.
“Why?” Easton prompts. “Why don’t you get the appeal?”
“For one, it looks…uncomfortable. Covered in dirt all the time, working in extreme heat only to stare at cows’ asses. Struggling through half the day to get a whiff of fresh air instead of inhaling the stench of their shit, bleh. No thanks.”
Laughter bursts from Easton as I look over and smile at him sitting next to me, his own boots propped and crossed at the ankles on top of the dark blue and red-tiled table.
“Where’s the reward? Starry nights of solitude playing “Home on the Range,” next to a campfire with a harmonica?” I shrug. “Seems like a lonely life.”
“Only if you base a cowboy’s life on the few Western movies you’ve seen.”
“First of all, if I’ve ever seen a Western, it was completely by accident—I promise you that. And I mean, hey, I know there’s a lot more to it. Just seems like a lot of work for little-to-no payoff. Some of the folklore surrounding it has got to be true, or it wouldn’t be the standard. Bet you’d dig it, ya loner.”
His smile fades when I reach for my schooner, and he grabs it and sets it next to him on the table, just out of reach. “How about you hold off on that for a second.”
“I’ve only had one,” I defend. “You made me drink four waters between that and this one.”
“For good reason. Just for a minute,” he adds. “Okay?”
“Okay.” I bite my lip as he bends and pulls my chair closer to his, the stifling summer air instantly charging as I run my sweaty palms down my jeans, more sweat trickling down the nape of my neck. “Are you about to start a fight?”
“Is the road anything like you thought it would be?” He asks, dodging my question.
“In a way, but I know there’s a lot more to it.” I saw the warning looks he gave to Tack last night when he relayed a few road stories. Honestly, I’m too terrified to know if Easton has his own to tell yet.
“Okay,” he accepts easily, too easily, as I follow the drop of sweat gliding down his Adam’s apple before it disperses over the top of his cross.
“Tell me why you wrote that article.”
The question stuns me as he lifts my chin with gentle fingers, demanding my focus.
“It was just a what-if type of thing. I never expected anyone to see it.”
“But you wanted me to see it.”
“I wanted you to know I understood your stance, and if I had the chance to plead your case for keeping your private life private, that’s how I would have written it.”
“So that’s why?”
I dip my chin. “Yes, of course. I wanted you to know that I understood.” In my periphery, I see the first longhorns gather behind the fence across the street. “Oh, look! It’s happening.”
I jump to my feet, and Easton slowly joins me before we walk over to the iron partition separating us from the rapidly crowding street. Crouching low enough where we won’t be seen, Easton opts to stand just behind me, my shoulder resting against his chest, his scent surrounding me as heat drips down my back. He whisks one away with his thumb at the top of my jeans, and my lips part at the gentleness of his touch. Hyper-focused on what parts of him are touching me, I try to concentrate on the commotion behind the gate as Easton begins the slow sweep of his thumb along my spine.