Chapter 1 #2
“Ain’t my style to step on any toes.” Ryder holds up his hands. “But you change your mind, Wheeler, just know that I’m available.”
He disappears into the bar. Duke waits for me, still smiling.
“Such a gentleman.” I cross my arms.
“My brother’s not. Just so you know.”
“So you’re different, but I’m guessing you’re also identical? As in y’all are identical twins?”
Duke’s barrel of a chest rises on an inhale. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“But fortunately, you’re the better-looking one.”
His lips twitch. “You tell it like it is, Wheeler Rankin. I like that about you.”
“I like that about you too.” I step inside the Rattler and inhale a lungful of stale-beer smell. “But wow, I love this.”
“Just wait ’til the music starts. Whatcha drinking?” Duke nods at the U-shaped bar that dominates the high-ceilinged space.
“I like Shiner. Here, I’ll get the first round—”
“You’re cute.” Duke grins down at me. “When you come to my dive bar in my town, I’m buying. Shiner it is.”
I follow him to the bar, where he tells the bartender to put the pair of longnecks he orders on his tab.
This man couldn’t be more classic small-town cowboy if he tried.
Then again, he did talk about that yacht. And he kept bringing up Bellamy Brooks, which made me think he’s interested to know more about the business.
Maybe Duke has dreams that are bigger than Hartsville. The idea makes my chest feel funny, maybe because I also have dreams that are bigger—different at least—than the dreams my parents have for me.
Ignoring that, I focus on the tug of heat I feel low in my center as I shamelessly check out his ass. It looks cute in those Wranglers.
“Hearts or darts?” He turns around, beers in hand.
I furrow my brow. “Is that cowboy for ‘hello, here’s your beer’?”
“Nah. We usually just hand you the beer.” He passes one of the longnecks to me. “What I’m asking is do you play games with hearts or with darts?”
“Ah.” I take the beer, our fingers brushing, and grin. “Can I say both?”
“You can say whatever you want.” He flashes me a wide, white smile. “I like a challenge.”
“You’re gonna be disappointed, then.” I follow him to the far corner of the room.
A pool table is tucked underneath a stained-glass Budweiser light fixture.
Beside it, a dartboard that’s seen better days hangs on the wall underneath a pair of antlers mounted on a license plate from Alaska. “I suck at games.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Why do I get the feeling you’re already playing?”
Damn, he’s good.
The heat of his gaze follows me as I pluck the darts off the board. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“Just trying to get to know you.” He tips back his beer, throat bobbing on a swallow. “A friend of Mollie’s is a friend of mine. Haven’t seen my brother this happy in…well. Forever.”
So casual. Like he has real conversations with strangers on the regular and talks about his family with no trace whatsoever of awkwardness or trauma.
I envy him.
“They’re cute together, aren’t they? Mollie and Cash.” Darts in one hand, I tip back my own beer with the other. It’s all I can do not to groan. The Shiner Bock is ice cold, its earthy flavor refreshingly delicious. Didn’t realize I was so thirsty until I take one long sip, then another.
“It’s sickening.” Duke sets down his beer on the nearby whiskey barrel that’s been repurposed as a drinks table. “What’s your game? 501? 301?”
He’s referring to the different games we can play with the darts. Players start with either 501 or 301 points, subtracting the number they hit on the board during every turn. Whoever gets to zero first wins.
I’m smiling again as I flatten my palm, offering him the darts. “This is your bar, so it’s your call.”
He shakes his head and grins. “Nah, sweetheart.” Stepping closer, he curls his hand over mine and rolls the darts back into my palm. “You’re my guest, so you get to make the call. Although I know that call is gonna be 501.”
My pulse skips. My skin ignites at the casual, confident way he touches me. “I’m Mollie’s guest too.”
“I don’t share. 501 is your jam because you play the long game. You’re a steady Eddie chiseling away at those points, making your opponent think you’re not all that good. But then—bit by bit—you crush them, and then you finally go in for the kill.”
I lick my lips, pulse racing, even as that voice in my head sounds a warning. Careful. This guy is good.
Really, really good at reading people. Reading me.
We’re just flirting, though. This is harmless fun. Nothing more.
I deserve to blow off a little steam, don’t I?
After years of struggling to get Bellamy Brooks out of the red, Mollie and I are getting so close to hitting it big.
Just this week, we heard from Elle about a feature they’re doing on Western wear for the spring.
They want to possibly feature our Jocelyn boots, a pair of midcalf, almond-toed beauties available in coral and turquoise full-grain leather.
There’s no guarantee the feature will run or that our boots will end up in it. But it’s still a big deal the editors noticed us. We’ve only been knocking on their door for, oh, close to five years now.
Everyone thought I was stupid to pour my time and my life savings into a cowboy boot company.
I’m ashamed to admit that on bad days, I think I really must be stupid to bet so big on myself.
Who am I to believe I know what I’m doing?
I’ve had to borrow way more money than I’m comfortable admitting from my parents and grandparents to keep the company afloat.
I’ve only been able to pay back some of it, which is reason number one thousand why Mom and Dad don’t approve of the career path I’ve chosen.
But even though no one in my family really believes in me, I can’t quit. Not yet. Deep down, there’s a voice that keeps telling me we can make Bellamy Brooks work.
“I hope you’re not in a rush.” I set down my beer and assume the position: weight balanced evenly on both feet, shoulders relaxed, grip on the dart delicate. “You’re right—501 is my game.”
One side of Duke’s mouth quirks upward. “I got all night.”
“It won’t take me that long to kick your ass.”
“You talk a big game.”
“I’m not afraid to make big bets.”
“Awful risky when the margin for error is so small.” He nods at the board. The areas with the highest scores are placed directly beside areas with the lowest scores, so when you aim for twenty points, you could easily—very, very easily—end up with a measly one point.
“You gotta learn to be okay with losing.” I flex my wrist, muscle memory taking over as I practice my aim. “The more you lose, the closer you get to a win. At least that’s what probability and all the quotes on my Pinterest feed tell me.”
“What the hell is a Pinterest?”
I release the dart. It lands with a dull, barely audible thud just outside the bullseye. Twenty-five points.
I turn to smile at Duke. “It’s the place I go to find outfit inspiration and horny book quotes.”
“I see what you’re doing.”
“What’s that?”
“Distracting me with your excellent dart-throwing form and use of the word ‘horny.’ But two can play this game.” His bicep bulges as he lifts the hat off his head and flips it to put it on backward.
His eyes lock on mine, shimmering like pavement on a scorching summer day. “Now show me what you can do.”
Laughter, easy and real, bubbles up in the back of my throat. At the same time, my mouth goes dry.
This man is so fucking hot it almost hurts to look at him. I tell myself that’s a good thing, because there’s no chance of him ever wanting me as more than a hookup. He’s the wild child, remember? Which suits me just fine, because I just want to have fun too.
Is fun all I want, though? Why does my center ping with something like pain when I glance across the bar and see Mollie and Cash dancing cheek to cheek to a Brooks & Dunn song?
I throw my second dart. It lands—shit—a centimeter to the left of my intended target. My third ends up dropping pitifully to the floor.
“Now you know how it feels.” Duke bends down to pick up the dart.
I shamelessly check out his Wrangler butt yet again because I am indeed quite horny. “How what feels?”
“To be distracted by your gorgeous opponent.” He grins. My heart plunges to its death somewhere at the base of my spine when he turns and hits a bullseye on his first throw. “Giddyup, cowgirl.”