Chapter 8
EIGHT
Hazel
“So, the husband is back…” Bristol, one of my best friends and the owner of the local antique shop, sips her drink.
“Yes, how is that going?” Dakota sits back against the booth.
We’re gathered at Dakota’s bar. It’s the only place in town with decent vibes. Cowboy’s down the street mostly plays to the tourists, and Morton’s up the street is just where a lot of the locals go to watch ball and talk politics. Seven Sins, Dakota’s place, has the best drinks and a dance floor that’s nearly as busy as the bar—especially on weekend nights like tonight.
“I just have to survive a few months while he works through his parole.” I’ve already given them the basics of the arrangement Ramsey and I have agreed to tell friends and family about in the group chat. Leaving out the part about the million and the notion that I might sleep with him seemed like a mistake in retrospect though. I could really use their advice, and none of us are in the habit of keeping secrets from each other.
“I think we should torture him while we can. Revenge for everything he put you through.” Dakota’s lips form into a devious smirk as she plays with the cherry in her glass.
“I think she should use it as an extended bachelorette-party hall pass. He was an asshole, but he’s as hot as he ever was.” Bristol’s the practical one.
“Given that she’s still married, wouldn’t it be a second honeymoon?” Marlowe muses, smiling a little when Dakota nudges her with her elbow in appreciation.
“It can be both.” Bristol grins and takes another slow sip of the Long Island iced tea she’s been hitting hard since we got here.
“I’d get him in bed, get naked, ride that cowboy right to the edge, and then walk out and leave his ass with the worst blue balls of his life. Remind him of exactly what he fucked up.” Dakota’s the kind of person you never want to cross.
“Is there a version where I don’t get naked with him? I think that’s probably not in my best interest.” Namely, because Ramsey is a lot of things I’d rather forget, but some parts of him are more memorable than others.
“You miss him?” Marlowe looks at me thoughtfully.
“She misses his dick.” Bristol laughs.
“It was the one thing he was really good for.” It’s not a fair thing for me to say. Ramsey had plenty of other virtues; I’ve just worked hard to forget all of them and focus on the things I hate.
“Be fair. He plays decent ball too.” Dakota grins.
I shrug before I take a sip of my drink. I’m nursing it even though I’d rather be having more than my fair share. Drunk me is less ethical than sober me, and with temptation sleeping in my guest room, I need to keep my wits about me .
“Okay, enough talk about him. I need an escape from Ramsey, not a rehash of his greatest hits. He’s barely been here a couple of days and already taken over everything. He’s driving me crazy.” I try to steer the conversation away from Ramsey Stockton, but it’s like trying to tame a tornado. He’s the whirlwind of destruction that has everyone in town’s interest.
“You know we’ll help with the body if necessary,” Bristol chimes in.
“I might need it. He’s literally everywhere. The kitchen. The living room. The stables. Chatting with Kit in the inn. I can’t escape him, and now he’s started doing little things to help. Feeding the horses and hauling hay with Kell and Elliot. Running around seeing what he can fix at the inn.”
“Disgusting.” Dakota shakes her head, but a smile cracks despite her attempts to look disapproving.
“Not that!” Marlowe gives me a mock horrified look as she presses her palm to her chest.
“I still think you should torture him. Give him something to do that isn’t bothering you. Or better yet, put him to work doing all the shit jobs around the ranch and inn. Make him muck stalls. Send him out to the far pastures to check the fences. Make him do the laundry. Wash the dishes.” Bristol’s daydreaming about getting that kind of help herself around the house. Bristol’s single, but between helping her family out and keeping her business open, she’s juggling hard to keep everyone floating.
“That’s not torture for him. Torture is reminding him he’s about to lose his gorgeous wife in a few short months to another man. Start doing your wedding planning in front of him,” Marlowe offers, and I raise my brow at her sudden switch to the dark side. “What? I’m just trying to help,” she replies defensively .
“Not the wedding planning. The honeymoon planning.” Dakota’s eyes glitter with the idea.
“That seems cruel.” I press my lips together, letting another sip of the whiskey-laden drink burn my throat. “Then again, I do like to watch the man suffer.”
“That Rampage game we went to where the Chaos lost to them? Brutal.” Bristol smirks. I’d picked up tickets for my birthday, claiming I won them, and was reluctantly going to go if my friends could go with me. It was a bittersweet sort of regret the minute I watched him step onto the field and heard the home state chant his name right alongside the handful of Chaos fans in the stadium.
“Do you have lingerie you can parade around in? Ask him what he thinks would work best for the honeymoon.” Dakota’s still planning Ramsey’s torture.
“No. I’ve been meaning to get some. But all the good places are up in Denver.” I love living out in the middle of nowhere, but the one downside is needing to travel into the city for any semblance of choice. At least, unless I got wild at midnight clicking the buy button online. A thing I might treat myself to this weekend given the circumstances.
“What do you have going on tomorrow?” Dakota looks like she’s plotting something.
“Not much… a few guests are leaving, but Grace could get them checked out.” I give her a skeptical look in return, nervous about what her creative mind could come up with.
“So let’s go.” Dakota’s eyes glimmer with mischief.
“Do it!” Bristol adds.
“And then you can ask him for honeymoon spot suggestions. Those athletes are always traveling to the most gorgeous places. I bet he has some recommendations.” Marlowe grins when I look to her for a sane opinion.
“You guys are evil. ”
“Supportive. Evil. It’s all the same.” Dakota takes another sip of her drink and grins at me. “Pick me up tomorrow at nine.”
“Are you going to be ready that early?” I ask, noting that she’s already a couple of drinks deep and not an early riser on a good morning.
“I will be for this. Don’t worry about me. Just make sure you are, ’cause you’re driving. But I’ll buy lunch.”
“All right. Are any of you coming?” I look around the rest of the table. I might need support fending off Dakota’s more devious plans.
“I have to open Hotcakes in the morning and take deliveries in the afternoon. I really need to find someone who can help me with the deliveries at least.” Marlowe sighs and gives me a sad look.
“Since Delia quit, it’s just me. So I’m working tomorrow too. But send me pictures and updates!” Bristol looks at Dakota.
“Will do.” Dakota nods.
A moment later, a couple of guys who look like they might be tourists approach our table, their eyes on Bristol and Dakota.
“Dance?” The younger one holds out his hand for Dakota.
“Can you city boys dance?” Dakota raises her brow in return, clearly unimpressed.
“I imagine you can teach me if I can’t.” He flashes bright white teeth that nearly blind in the low light of the bar.
“She’s not much for teaching. She prefers them experienced.” Bristol smirks at Dakota, and they exchange glances.
“What about you then? Do you mind teaching?” His eyes fall on Bristol.
“I’m not much for dancing with guys who had their eye on my friend,” Bristol answers and then leans against Dakota’s shoulder in amusement. The city boy’s grin fades fast, clearly not used to losing out this hard at home .
“Dance with me then. He can watch and learn,” the older one interjects.
“How about you both watch?” Anson, my older brother, steps between them and reaches his hand out for Bristol’s. He nods a brief hello to the rest of us. “I’ll have her right back. Any refills?” Anson nods to our drinks.
“Another whiskey sour?” I ask.
“Another whiskey. Neat.” Dakota pushes her empty glass to the side.
“I’m good.” Marlowe nods to the drink she’s been nursing all night. Bakeries and their crack of dawn opening times don’t usually go well with nights out.
“Coming right up.” He slips his fingers through Bristol’s, pulling her down off the high bench we’re on and spinning her once before he crosses the floor with her to a two-step until they reach the bar.
“Should we be asking questions about that?” Marlowe asks as the city slickers disappear to another table, and we watch Bristol and Anson having an animated discussion about something.
“Definitely not.” I shake my head. “They bicker like an old married couple without any of the cute moments.”
“And they’re related.” Dakota frowns at the idea.
Bristol and Anson are technically brother and sister-in-law, although his wife—Bristol’s stepsister, Fannie—died a few years ago in an accident. Bristol and her mom still help Anson out with their son whenever he needs a babysitter or just a weekend off from being a busy single dad. But Fannie and Bristol were nothing alike, like oil and water, and Anson’s complained more than once that my best friend drives him up the wall.
“Hmm. Just asking.” Marlowe flashes another look in their direction.
“Anson’s just protective because she watches Ford. Doesn’t want any bad influences around and all that. You know how he is.” Anson’s so quiet and so business focused; I can’t imagine any woman besides Fannie wanting to deal with him.
“You’re just projecting your Briggs brother crush on the rest of us,” Dakota teases, and Marlowe’s cheeks pink at the implication.
“I still have no idea how you thought Bo was hot.” I have to shake the thought off. Growing up with three brothers has left me with all kinds of trauma—dead animals, dirty laundry, and mystery odors of all kinds. The idea that any of the boys I lived with end up with women at all is a puzzle wrapped inside an enigma, only opened with a riddle that probably involves a “that’s what she said” joke.
“It was high school. I was young and impressionable.” Marlowe attempts to defend herself.
“I mean… he was kind of hot when he played football. I’ll give you that.” Dakota’s always had a thing for athletes. I ended up with one on accident.
“I know a football player who’s about to be single if you want him,” I offer up, knowing full well that Dakota has zero interest.
“No, thank you. That one is permanently damaged by a previous owner and is currently being returned to sender,” Dakota pipes back.
A moment later, Anson’s returning with our drinks, and Bristol’s hopping back into the booth.
“Miss anything?” she asks, sliding the drink she got for Dakota across the table.
“Nothing worth noting,” Marlowe answers, keen to change the subject.
“Thanks.” I smile at my brother as he hands me my drink. He nods and then turns to head back to where he came from .
“Who’s watching Ford?” I ask Bristol. He’s getting older, but not quite old enough to stay on his own. Especially since he’s always been a wild child—much to Anson’s dismay.
“He’s staying the night at Mom’s with a friend of his. They’re doing some board game thing, so he shouldn’t give her too much trouble. He knows she can’t handle a lot of noise, but I should probably head out early.”
“Okay, but first, dancing!” Dakota downs her whiskey. “With you girls because I have zero tolerance for men and their bullshit tonight.”
“Sounds good to me.” Marlowe grins.
As the clock turns back over to the single digits, and I’ve had more than my fair share of dancing and drinks, I stand and immediately realize I’m not driving home. And it’s way too far to walk. I plop back down in the seat, and Dakota giggles at the flop I make.
“I can get Jasper to drive us home.” Marlowe volunteers her brother. For the three of them who live in town, it’s a quick trip, but I hate to ask Jasper to come all the way here and then drive me all the way out to my ranch. I could ask one of my brothers. Anson’s already here after all, but he also gets up early in the morning. Which leads me to the one person who has nothing better to do.
Your wife is drunk and needs a ride home.
It takes him a minute to respond, but I see the dots slowly come to life on the screen.
Ramsey:
Claiming that title now?
At this hour, yes.
You and the girls didn’t plan for this?
I could walk or I can ask one of these nice gentlemen at the bar.
One of these cowboys has been lookin’ at me all night like he might let me have a ride anyway.
I grin at my phone watching as the dots appear immediately.
Ramsey:
Fuck no.
You stay right there with Dakota. I’m coming.
Yes, sir.
When he pulls up to the curb in his truck and opens the door, I climb in. He looks over my appearance and smirks. I have a short skirt on, and I don’t miss the way his eyes linger on my legs.
“What?” I ask defensively, but he just shakes his head dismissively and looks back to the road.
“Out dancing?”
“Yes. I needed some fun after this week.”
There’s a mumbled mhmm on his part but nothing more. Suspicious given how much he likes to take shots. I risk a glance over at him. He has on a worn old white T-shirt that’s two sizes too small from the number of times it’s been washed, and it’s currently hugging every curve of his chest and biceps. It’s like arm porn with the tattoos, and the tight way the cuff hugs his muscles, and the veins and tendons rise and fall as he moves his arm. When his hand wraps around the gear shift, I start to lick my lips before I realize what’s happening.
Get it together, Hazel. He’s an asshole. Don’t touch.
I manage to tear my eyes away, and I lean my head on the window. I should keep my eyes on the road too. It’s the only safe place to look in this truck.
I’m only half awake by the time we pull up into the lot by the barn. He has to park here because some of the guests’ cars are blocking the main drive up to the house, but I’m not looking forward to the walk over the gravel in the heels I have on.
I’ve got my feet braced up against the door to take them off as he opens it, and I nearly tumble out. His brow raises at me, and then he realizes what I’m doing, his eyes falling to where I’m slipping the second heel off. He reaches out a hand as I step down from the truck, and I take it reluctantly.
“This seems wise to you?” He looks down at my bare feet on the gravel.
“Wiser than trying to walk on it in these.” I hold up my heels in front of his face, and he takes them before I can snatch them back. “Hey!” I lunge toward him, and it takes exactly one step for me to find fault with my idea. “Ouch!” I pull up and run my fingers over my pinkie toe that I’ve already managed to smash against a particularly sharp rock.
“That’s what I thought.” He shakes his head, and then, without asking permission, he hauls me up into his arms.
“What are you doing? Put me down,” I gripe, smacking my purse against his shoulder with less force than a fly smashing into a skyscraper. But I don’t need to be touching the man. It’s too risky.
“Putting you to bed, grouchy,” he grumbles, kicking the truck door shut behind us and starting to make his way across the lot.
“I don’t need to be carried!” Given the way he winces, I’m guessing I said that a lot louder than I needed to.
“I don’t want to listen to you moan and cry your way across the lot at two a.m., and I doubt your guests do either.” He explains his motivations like I’m a child.
“Shit. The guests.”
“The guests.” He nods.
He has one small point, but I need to make my own—something that ensures he doesn’t end up lingering too close once we get in the house. One more stretch of cotton across his chest and I might be a goner.
“Just to be clear.” I use my best drunk-girl whisper. “This isn’t winning you any points, Mr. Hero. The whole world might love you, but I don’t.”