Chapter 10
I should have beenready an hour ago. Instead, I’m late to meeting everyone at Peakside, and Bryce, Ms. Always On Time, has been scowling at me because of it for the past twenty minutes.
“I warned them that if they wanted you to be on time, they needed to tell you to meet them an hour before they’re actually planning on being there,” she says on a dramatic exhale, tapping a fingernail to her smart watch.
“Your panties are just in a twist because you’re late. It has nothing to do with me.”
“It has everything to do with you because I expected you to be ready when I showed up, not stinking like a sweaty teen boy in a locker room. Now Brody’s going to eat my portion of the nachos, and I’ll be hangry all night.”
I laugh, tugging my deep blue long-sleeve down over my bra and belly. The movement snags at my sore core muscles, but I puff out a breath at the pain, not giving it the space in my brain.
MaybeI worked myself too hard today. But I needed the escape from everything in my life that’s been trying to knock me down and keep me sprawled on the ground. Physical strain, most of the time, is the only thing that helps.
“Anna won’t let him eat your portion,” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes. “As if. He’ll still manage it.”
“How about I promise to order you your own? Would that appease you, Ice?”
“I guess so. As long as you get your ass out that door right now.”
I grin while grabbing my boots from the front door and slipping them on as quick as possible. “So impatient.”
She flashes me her teeth. “I’ll show you impatient, Pops. Let’s go.”
“Yes, Mommy,” I coo.
“Careful, or I’ll have everyone calling me that from now.”
“We’ll see if it sticks.”
Bryce pushes the door open and holds it as I slip past her into the night. The small house I call home technically belongs to my parents, but I’ve been renting it from them for years. It’s not much. Honestly, it’s hardly anything at all. A one-bedroom, one-bathroom split-level duplex only a block from main street Cherry Peak. My parents will never admit that they only bought the place for me, but that’s fine. I appreciate it all the same, even if a part of my pride flakes away every time I remind myself that I don’t have a damn true thing to my name besides a cheap coffee machine and a designer purse I thrifted for five bucks last summer amongst a closet of fakes.
The walk to Peakside is quick, no longer than a handful of minutes. Still, my thighs strain with each step there. Once we get inside the warm bar, I focus on anything but my pain.
“You good?” Bryce asks, concern etched deep in the naturally sharp lines of her face.
“Sore as fuck but fine. In need of a shot or two, maybe.”
Her grin is wicked. “You got it, babe.”
She heads to the bar to order our drinks while I go right for our table. Some of my stress poofs into thin air at the sight of my friends. My smile is genuine as I make a beeline for them.
“Poppy!” Anna squeals, a soft pink flush to her cheeks that has my eyes shifting to the empty glasses on the table in front of her.
“Hello, my love. Did you start drinking without me? How rude,” I scold teasingly.
“What else were we supposed to do while we waited for you?” Caleb asks.
I glare at him while shoving him into the empty space he’s left on his bench seat. When he refuses to shift, I glare harder.
“Are you really going to make me pull up a chair when you have all that room?”
Caleb shrugs a casual shoulder, the poster boy of nonchalance. “You snooze, you lose. Garry got here first. He’s got dibs.”
“Garry?”
“Garrison,” Anna says.
I part my lips on a silent gasp, genuine shock rattling my bones. Maybe there was a tiny—minuscule, really—part of me that hoped I’d see Garrison here tonight. That maybe the reckless tease I goaded him with had interested him enough to attempt a night out. God, I don’t know why I even did that in the first place. A man like Garrison Beckett isn’t interested in the likes of me and vice versa. It was a moment of weakness.
So why am I hoping that he’s been thinking about my offer as often as I have? That he’s even a fourth attracted to me as I so very obviously am to him?
“Should we not have invited him?” Anna asks, an apology already locked and loaded on her tongue as she takes in my expression.
I adjust my features to hide my true feelings and then look over my shoulder for a glimpse of Bryce. She’s not at the bar anymore, gone off to who knows where. From the lack of Johnny at the table, I’m inclined to think she’s already off playing wingwoman for him.
“Oh, me and Garrison are best friends now. Don’t worry about it,” I answer before hauling a wooden chair from one of the empty tables nearby to ours and plopping my ass onto it.
“How exactly did that happen?” Caleb asks once I’ve got as comfortable as I’m going to in this hard-ass chair.
“That’s a secret.”
He takes a sip of his beer, the corner of his mouth twitching in a no-good way that has nerves immediately curling in my belly. “Alright. Hey, Garrison, how did you and Poppy become best friends?”
I follow Caleb’s stare, knowing damn well who’s going to be standing at the end of it but unable to avoid the pull to catch a glimpse of him. Desire ignites my blood the moment our eyes meet.
Cowboy Garrison is gone. The tight jeans and dirty T-shirt have been replaced by the same black slacks and button-up that he stepped onto Steele Ranch wearing. Only this time, it isn’t annoyance I feel at the image of him in those posh clothes that have no place in Peakside. It’s lust. A zap of it between my legs that turns my mind hazy.
I could purr at the fire in his gaze as he watches me far too intently to be innocent. It’s not just my foggy thoughts that have me recognizing his interest. I’m not that far gone. He’s just not hiding it this time. For a reason I desperately want to expose.
My newly dyed auburn hair has been chopped to my shoulders, and while it might still be a bit messy from the clip I had in earlier, he still drags those scorching greenish-brown eyes all over it as if I’d spent hours doing it up.
I resist the urge to fidget beneath the weight of that stare. My pulse races frantically when our eyes meet again, and he . . . scowls? The heat bubbling beneath my skin cools at the annoyance that flicks over his face.
It would be easy to get up and leave before he has a chance to strike me down. Maybe Bryce is close to the exit?—
“Why are you sitting there?”
I hesitate. “What?”
Garrison looks to Caleb, such a cold, calculating look on his face. “Why is she sitting there and not beside you?”
“He was saving your spot,” Brody says carefully.
“By making a woman sit on a hard chair in the middle of a walkway? I was under the impression you had better manners here than where I come from.”
I shiver at the cutthroat sharpness of his tone. At the sheer power vibrating in each word that makes sweat break out along the back of my neck.
“He has a point, Caleb. Why don’t you just swap spots with Poppy?” Brody asks.
It’s hard to tell if he’s genuinely in agreement with Garrison or if he’s just trying to diffuse the situation before it gets out of hand. Most likely the latter.
“You’re joking,” Caleb mutters.
Garrison is a breath away from my shoulder now, his aura slamming against my personal bubble, demanding entrance. “I’m struggling to find the humour in this situation.”
“How about me and Garrison go get some drinks? It seems Bryce has gotten lost,” I ramble before jumping out of my seat and snatching Sir Douchealot’s wrist, dragging him with me away from the table.
Only when we’ve rounded the bar, out of both viewing and hearing distance of my friends, do I release the thick wrist in my grasp and suck back a breath. The towering man behind me stays silent, watching as I lean my arms on the bar top and flag over the bartender.
Bryce’s ex-girlfriend’s mother saunters over to me, and I realize in an instant why Bryce never did return with our drinks. Annoyance springs to life inside of me as I stare down the old woman and owner of Peakside.
“Good evening, Pamila,” I purr, pasting on an ultra-sweet smile just for her. “Two apple pie shots, please. Heavier on the shot, lighter on the apple.”
“Poppy,” she grunts in greeting before getting to work on the shots.
Such a riveting conversationalist, this one. I wonder if it has anything to do with my terrible relationship with her devil of a daughter after what she did to Bryce or if she just simply doesn’t like me. Oh, who am I kidding? It’s both. The feeling is thoroughly reciprocated.
“Thirsty?” Garrison’s voice drifts from behind me, caressing my flaming neck. His tone is softer than it was just moments ago yet still stiff.
His hand flattens to the wood beside my forearm, close enough I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. I keep still, unbothered, my fingers tapping the bar.
“Parched. But they’re not both for me. One’s for you, City Boy. Consider it a thank you for standing up for me back there. Albeit a bit unnecessary.”
“I don’t do shots.” He ignores my thanks. I don’t care.
“You do tonight.”
His laugh is gruff and deep. Sexy. “No, Poppy. I don’t.”
With as much bravado as I can muster up, I twist to face him, leaving one arm supporting my weight on the bar. “How about just a taste, then? It’s nice and sweet, I promise.”
“What makes you think I like nice and sweet?”
My stomach flutters, excitement flooding my veins like liquid sugar. I cock my head, tugging my lip between my teeth to hide a grin. He moves in closer, the scent of rich cologne flooding the space between us. I don’t take a step back, and I don’t think he expects me to. Not when his eyes flare at our close proximity.
“Aren’t you tired of the same bitter taste, Garrison? Take a step out of your comfort zone with me. Just this once,” I coax, sliding my arm across the bar toward where he’s resting his hand, long fingers splayed and curled slightly.
“Would you take a step out of yours in return?” he asks roughly.
Words aren’t necessary in this moment. There’s no convincing needed, for either him or myself. Both of us know my answer as clear as if I had shouted it across an empty room when I set my hand on his forearm, twirling my fingertip in a soft circle over the soft silk fabric of his shirt. It’s a testing touch, but it’s electric, a current of energy zipping directly between us.
Garrison drops his attention to where we touch, jaw straining from how hard he’s grinding his teeth. I spread my fingers over his arm and tighten my hold just enough to draw his attention back up to my face.
Our eyes connect, and my muscles go lax. Arousal thumps in my core while a needy voice in my mind begs me to let this man be the one to break my dry spell. To take me hard and fast and desperate. Two people driven by a simple, animalistic urge to fuck.
A connection like this would be a crime to ignore. A disservice to the both of us. Right?
Like he can read every filthy thought in my mind, a groaned exhale tears from those plump lips, and his chin tips ever so slightly. Approval. The beginning of an agreement.
“Two apple pie shots. Heavy on the apple, lighter on the shot,” Pamila says, that croak of a voice settling between us like spoiled milk. “That’ll be eleven dollars.”
I wait for Garrison to shove himself backward, away from me, but no, he doesn’t pay Pamila an ounce of attention. It’s like she’s not there at all. He’s still staring at me, expression careful, emotions hidden.
It’s a strain on my willpower to be the one to break contact and meet the waiting glare of the old woman long enough to slide the shots toward us. I reach for my back pocket to grab my bank card when Garrison’s hand presses mine against the swell at the top of my ass, halting my movements.
If I could just shift it a bit lower . . .
“Next time you charge eleven dollars for two shots, ensure sure you’re following the customer’s directions,” he says to Pamila, a thin black card now resting between his fingers.
I stare at that card, at the obvious wealth that’s associated with it and the ease with which he holds it. As if it’s nothing more than a useless piece of plastic.
Pamila blanches a bit beneath his words before she’s quick to jut her chin back to its usual height. With a roll of her eyes, she hands the card machine to Garrison, watching closely when he pays with a tap to the screen. The black card disappears as quickly as it appeared, and then I’m pushing one of the shots toward him, Pamila forgotten.
“If you try this one with me, I’ll try something you like. Sound like a deal?”
He pinches the shot glass between two fingers and lifts it to his nose before sniffing. His nose crinkles. “What I drink is a lot harder than this.”
“I can handle it.”
“Then you have a deal, Poppy.”
My smile is wide enough my cheeks pinch as I grab my shot and set it against my lips. “On three?”
“Three,” he says before tipping the shot into his mouth.
I quickly do the same, glaring at him as I swallow. “Cheater.”
“We weren’t competing.”
“Maybe we were.”
“Then I won.”
I set my glass on the bar. “By cheating.”
“We never discussed the rules.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re about to have a real drink,” he muses before waving Pamila down and ordering two shots of a brand of whiskey I’ve never heard of yet somehow Peakside has stock of.
“Have you always had expensive taste?”
“How do you know what I’ve ordered is expensive?”
I tilt my head and lift my brows. “Don’t play coy. It doesn’t suit you.”
Again, that chuckle escapes him. “Yes, in a way, I suppose I’ve always had expensive tastes.”
“I grew up on KD and hot dogs until I was a teenager.”
“Only until you were a teen?”
Pamila hands over our shots, and Garrison pays again before shifting one toward me. I lift it to my mouth, holding it there.
“You’ll need to buy me a few more drinks to get that sort of information from me, Garry.” I emphasize the new nickname, testing his reaction to it.
When he shoots back the shot instead of replying, I take that as reaction enough. He swallows the amber liquid easily, without any sign of struggle. Myself, on the other hand, I gag the instant it touches the back of my throat.
“That is fucking vile,” I curse, jabbing my tongue out as I choke.
Garrison rubs his lips together, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he watches me struggle for a beat more before demanding a glass of water from Pamila. There are tears in my eyes when I take it from his offered hand and drain it in one go.
“You said you could handle it,” he muses, hovering so damn close I would have shoved him back had I not wanted to bunch my fingers in his shirt and drag me right on top of me.
“I was wrong. Very, very wrong.” I’d have been scrubbing my tongue clean if I were alone.
“This explains the apple pie shot.”
“Hey, hey, hey. Slow down. I will have you know that I can take a tequila shot like nobody’s business. But that? That is poison.”
A crack of a grin shows on his face, and I go still, the warmth of the alcohol in my blood setting a match to the lingering desire I’ve been trying to forget. Fuck, he’s handsome. A powerhouse of a man that both infuriates me and turns my knees to jelly.
“Would you like another one of your drinks, then? Help wash down the poison?” he asks, eyes trailing over every inch of my face.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” I ask, brow twitching.
He shifts, setting a soft, steady hand against my low back. I melt into that touch, every nerve alive beneath that touch.
“No, Poppy. I want you sober for what I have planned for you tonight. I’m just . . . enjoying myself with you first.” His chin drops, breath pulsing hot against my face as he adds, “Before I ravish you.”