Rope the Moon (Runaway Ranch, #2)(71)

The minute we step into the neon lights and lasers beams of the Rose and Cowboy Arcade, the place goes quiet. Heads turn, gazes direct our way, and I wince. The whole town believes I’m pregnant with Davis Montgomery’s baby, and even though my brain screams it’s an idiot plan, my heart says otherwise. I’m pregnant. Does it matter who the father is?

I step closer into Davis’s body, into all those muscles that have me drawing from his strength. “Everyone’s looking,” I whisper.

He drags in a breath, nostrils flaring. Then he takes my hand and leads me across the floor. “It’s okay. I got you.”

I square my shoulders.

He does.

Ignoring the attention zeroed in on us, I roam my eyes around the Rose and Cowboy Arcade. An arcade-slash-pool hall with a retro Wild West vibe. It’s the hot Saturday night thing to do in Resurrection that doesn’t involve falling dead drunk off barstools at the Neon Grizzly or drag racing down Dead Fred’s Curve.

I fell in love with the arcade and its neon lights the second it came to town. When we were kids, Fallon and I would beg our father for quarters and play the afternoon away.

It’s the place I had my sixteenth birthday. I took my first Jello-O shot with Patti Ann behind the Street Fighter arcade game. It’s where I took Davis when I met him at the ranch. He asked me what I did when I was bored in this town and I told him I’d play a game of pinball.

I glance down at my stomach, cup its low swell, then look over at Davis and smile. “Baby’s first pinball,” I tell him.

And according to Davis, our first official date. Since he declared no friends, no secrets, my head’s been spinning. After months of dancing around it, we’re finally moving in a direction that feels dangerously close to what I’ve always wanted.

Us.

God, I hope we last.

I can survive Aiden, but I can’t survive Davis letting me go again.

Davis grins and steps closer, fitting his warm palm to the small of my back. “Where to, Koty?” The steel in his voice, the way he possessively cups my back, has me hot all over.

He cares. And it’s been a long time since I had that.

I scan the room, seeking out familiar machines, one in particular. It’s a long shot, though, because the Rose and Cowboy trades out the machines every few months to bring in new ones.

I squint through the crowd, aware Davis is waiting for an answer. “I don’t…”

“Over here,” he says, taking my hand. He leads me to a darkened corner of the room, and we stop in front of a bright bubblegum pink pinball machine. Cowgirl Coven.

“Oh my god,” I breathe. “They still have it.”

I grasp the plunger, test out the flippers, and run my eyes over the colorful machine. Fallon and I always loved the cheesy ’80s storyline. Cowgirls battle the devil in a Wild West apocalyptic showdown that’s part zany hijinks, part psychedelic mushroom trip.

Unbidden tears spring to my eyes. My favorite machine’s still here. Existing. Like even though things have changed, some little part of my life is still around.

Davis scruffs a hand over his face, stares at me like I’m killing him dead. “Koty.”

“I’m okay.” I wipe my cheeks and sniffle. “It’s just…it feels hopeful that it’s still here. Not everything changes. I know this is stupid. I’m crying over a pinball machine.”

A half-smile touches Davis’s lips. “Cupcake, you cry your beautiful eyes out. And when you’re done…” He pauses, leans in. “I’ll kick your ass.”

I sob-laugh. “Bullshit.” I grab the flippers and hope the need for competition will dry up my tears. “I wonder if our high scores are still there.”

Davis drops a token in the slot and the blaring banger of a theme song—dueling banjos and electric guitar—drowns out the sound of every other machine in the arcade.

“You ready for an ass kicking?” I taunt.

There’s a rumble of a chuckle from Davis. “Going from crying to ass kicking? That’s what I’d call underhanded diversion tactics, Cupcake.”

I scoff. “Let’s play.”

“You’re on,” he says as he wraps one massive hand around the plunger.

“Outta my way,” I tease, elbowing him aside.

We play token after token. Long and loud into the evening. Even with my weak arm, I kill it and beat my best score. Squish kicks in my belly like he–or–she is keeping rhythm with the bright noises of the arcade.

“Damn skill shot,” I mutter. “Damn bitch, multi-ball,” I growl as three balls come out of nowhere. My game’s ended with a deafening “yeehaw” and the crack of a whip.

“Shit,” I whine. “I almost had that.” Then I look at Davis, our scores, and lift a brow. “Still beat you, Hotshot.”

It makes his lips curve, and I relish the sight.

“There she is. The Koty I remember.” Davis encircles me, his broad, rough hands slipping over my backside. I gasp as he spins me around to cage me against the machine. My senses are consumed with him—my breasts crushed against his powerful chest, the vibration of the pinball machine, the electric arc of our bodies. Heat and heart and soul.

Davis dips his head, his voice a husky rasp against my ear. “My sexy little trash talker.”