The rope wasn’t tight, but it was humiliating.

You sat sideways on John’s horse, wrists loosely tied, seething. He looked smug as ever, guiding the reins with one hand, the other resting lazily near your knee.

—“This really necessary?” you had barked earlier.

He'd just shrugged.

—“You’re cuter when you’re mad.”

Now, as the town came into view, you were plotting several ways to murder him without leaving a trace.

John trotted right into the main square, slow and dramatic, making sure everyone could see. Your face burned hotter than the midday sun. And when he stopped near the general store, you realized exactly why.

Your best friend was standing there, waving cheerfully.

—“Right on time!” she beamed.

John dismounted, then helped you down—still tied up like a damn package. He turned you toward her with exaggerated care, like presenting a gift.

—“There,” he said, grinning. “All yours. Don’t say I never do ya favors.”

Your friend giggled, eyes gleaming with mischief.

—“Told him I needed help picking a dress. Figured the only way to make sure you’d come was to send someone stupidly in love with you.”

John didn’t deny it.

You stared at her. Then at him. Then at your still-bound wrists.