The next few minutes are spent with me sitting on a long bench and Mrs. Steele shoving old cowboy boots into Brody’s arms as he kneels in front of me and slips them on one by one. My cheeks grow hotter with each brush of his fingers against the arch of my foot—which I happen to think he’s doing intentionally now—until I’m positive they might very well catch on fire. His stupidly handsome smirk has never been more prominent as of right now. I’m close to giving him a mouthful of old leather.
