“Whoa, there,” he rumbles, holding my body up with his hands clamped firmly against my biceps.
My hands fist the fabric of his button-down shirt, the dark blue material at eye level stretched tight against his muscular build. I force myself not to think about how easy it would be to curl my hands into the slots between the buttons and pull it apart.
My body hums, being this close to him making it come alive.
And my stupid broken hooha suddenly rights itself and screams with ecstasy.
“Nice shirt,” he whispers huskily.
I look up from the top button I had been studying, loving the hint of golden skin that is peaking out the top, and meet his stormy green gaze. Without his ever-present hat, I’m graced with a clear view of his face.
His very expressive face.
“Did Quinn get that for you?”
“Huh?” I ask, confused.
“The shirt, darlin’. Did she get that for you?”
I look down and groan. I take a second, remembering when I got it, and then answer him. “No, Maverick. I bought it for myself.”
He’s silent and I look up. His eyes still reading the print on my shirt. It doesn’t take much to realize just how well worn and loved this shirt is. Since the date is printed on it right next to the bold print announcing which rodeo event it was from, he’s going to be able to tell a lot by how faded it is for something that’s only a year old.
“How, Leighton?” he asks thickly.
“What is it you want to know, Maverick? That could be askin’ a lot of different things.”
“How did you get that and I didn’t see you?”
“I didn’t want you to see me. I knew that Quinn and Clay were heading to Vegas for the World Finals. You were at the top of the rankings to win again and I didn’t want to miss it, so I went with them. Bought the shirt before I left.” I swallow the lump in my throat, remembering the pride I felt for him as he rode. I was screaming his name before I realized what I was doing that night. I could have sworn, even with the roar the crowd was making, that he had heard me too, because right when he climbed off the dirt floor, he looked right toward the section I had been sitting in.
His expression darkens. “You were there?”
“It was the only one in Vegas I made it to. I flew home that night.”
“Why didn’t you come see me?”
“I saw you, Mav. You didn’t want me around, something you had made clear, but that didn’t mean that I didn’t still crave seeing you . . . even if it was only for eight seconds in a crowded arena.”
He drops his head, his chin hitting his chest, and I try to back up when his thick black hair tickles my face. The light from my living room makes his hair shine, and I feel my palms itch when I remember just how soft those strands feel when I’m running my hands through them. His fingers tighten around my arms when I make another move to back up.
“I wish you would have let me know you were there,” he whispers.
“Would it have made a difference?” I ask honestly.
He looks up, his eyes bright but full of distress. “I’m not sure.”
I make an attempt at a shrug, but his hold on my arms makes it hard. He stands taller, letting go, and I have to tip my head back to hold the connection between our gazes.
“What are you doing here, Maverick?”
“I know it’s late, but I’ve got a lot I would like to speak to you about, if you don’t mind.” He takes in a gulp of air. “I know I said I’d let you be to figure out what you want to do, but damn if I can let you be, Leighton.”
I sigh. “Do you want something to drink?”
“If you’ve got anything strong, I’ll take that—if not, sweet tea.”
I nod and turn to walk through the house to the kitchen. I can feel his eyes on me and I have instantly fidgeted with the hem of my shirt. With him here, in my home, I’m very aware of my lack of clothes. But the shirt is long and covers me completely.
Grabbing two shot glasses and the bottle of Jameson, I walk back into the living room and see he’s standing by one of my picture-framed-filled bookcases. He doesn’t turn to acknowledge that I’ve returned, but instead continues to study the photographs.
“I was going to come out to the ranch in the mornin’,” I tell his back.
He turns, his eyes rounded with shock at my admittance. I give him a weak smile and shrug my shoulders.
“I wanted you to know that. I feel like it’s important that you know I was coming to you. You kinda stole my chance to make the next move, I guess, but I was comin’. You were right when we spoke last. It’s time.”
His eyes close and he stands stock-still, breathing harshly, for a long while. “How come you aren’t married?” he softly asks, breaking through the silence that had settled around us.