24. The Cute Fiddler
24
THE CUTE FIDDLER
DAKOTA
P atterson sure is getting some flirty looks tonight at The General. I can’t blame all these women for biting their lips because I can’t stop staring at him either.
Wyatt’s hair is pulled back into a loose, low bun at the nape of his neck, and it’s making me chug my prickly pear margarita in triple time. And those top three buttons undone on his button-down? I can’t stop imagining all those tanned muscles dripping wet in the shower.
I always thought I wanted a broody bad boy, but loyalty? Tenderness? Responsibility? Those are some pretty sexy qualities in a man. And apparently everyone else in this goddamn bar thinks so because these women can’t keep their eyes off him.
The rusty old bar is alive with couples twirling, two-stepping the night away, but Wyatt’s barely looked at anyone else tonight.
His eyes are on me, and mine are on him.
“I told you the rolled-up sleeves work,” I whisper in his ear, my tongue loose from the pink prickly pear margarita I’ve been sipping. If there are any poor decisions tonight, I’m blaming them on the salt rim. “That redhead by the bar’s been staring at you for the past thirty minutes. ”
I would know. I clocked that when we walked inside.Between the redhead’s short jean skirt and Wyatt’s button-down, they look like the perfect two-stepping duo. I try not to let that bother me. As I watch, she peeks over her shoulder at him but quickly looks away when she finds me staring (okay, glaring) back.
“Really?” He keeps his eyes anchored to mine, never once leaving my face. “I didn’t notice. You’re the only woman I’m looking at tonight.”
The deep, guttural way Wyatt says that has my breathing turning shallow. I’m not sure if it’s the margarita or that damn shower memory, but he’s starting to feel nothing like my old friend and everything like a new man.
Maybe it’s because he hasn’t let go of me all night. Maybe it’s the way he can’t stop staring at the white cotton dress I borrowed from Lana. Maybe it’s how his hand keeps climbing higher and higher up my thigh, making my core ache. But it’s definitely because of the way he stood up for me to Brodie when no one else has.
I down my entire margarita in one gulp. “Who are you, and what have you done with my summer boy?”
His hand rubs burning circles on my thigh. “He’s still in here, but he’s grown up, which is something you need to realize.”
He pinches my chin, and a zing of need shoots right to my core. I lurch back on reflex, surprised by how turned-on that made me. His jaw visibly tightens at the new distance between us.
He picks up his whiskey on the rocks and takes a lengthy swig. When the glass is nearly empty, he sets it on the table and releases a huff, changing the subject. “Are you feeling better now after the ride?”
Thinking about that is going to ruin my night even though the tequila’s burned right through my garbage mood. Sometimes, I rely on alcohol to make me happy, which is a trash tactic, and one I don’t like doing all that often, but if there’s one thing that puts a smile on my face, it’s tequila.
“Let’s not talk about my failure today,” I mutter. “Yeah, I stayed on for six and a half seconds, so it’s progress, but until I make it for all eight, I won’t even score. I just need to stay on.”
His thumb moves to my forearm, and he begins tracing those little patterns there instead.
Burning patterns.
Branding patterns.
“You’re not a failure, Dakota,” he whispers the words, swollen with conviction, like it doesn’t matter whether or not I believe him because he’ll believe in me for the both of us.
I glance away so he can’t see the vulnerability etched into my frown. It’s difficult for me to talk about my deepest worries, mostly because it’s emotionally draining, ruminating on the hardest things about my life, but Wyatt’s a judgment-free zone, so my guard falls.
“No matter how hard I train, I can’t even last eight seconds on these more aggressive bulls, but sure, I’m doing just fine.”
Rough fingertips brush my chin, and he turns my head, forcing me to look at him. “Do you love bull riding?” he murmurs, staring at me like he sees something I can’t.
I clench my margarita tighter, needing something to hold onto. “Yes. I love everything about it—the thrill, the adrenaline rush, everything. It’s terrifying but addicting.”
He smiles like he expected me to say that, and his thumb climbs up to the inner crease in my elbow. He lightly digs his thumbnail into my skin. It’s a gentle, innocent touch, but it makes me all too aware of the mere inch of space thrumming between our bodies.
“Can you imagine doing anything else with your life?” His question pulls me back to the conversation.
I don’t even need to think about my answer. “No. Even when it’s hard, there’s nothing I’d rather do. ”
He lightly pinches my skin, and another zap ricochets to my core. “Then you’ll never be a failure. No one can call you a failure if you’re doing what you love.”
I hold his gaze, and he holds onto mine.
“But what if I’m really not cut out for this?” I whisper my deepest fear, all those doubts floating to the top of my worries.
“You are,” he says, almost ferociously. “Don’t let Brodie’s opinion drag you down. Listen to the people who’ve got your back. It might take you longer, but you’ll get there.”
Wyatt’s simple, heartfelt words ease my concern, and I’ll never know how he manages to say exactly what I need to hear. He always used to have this way of distilling the most complicated emotions into the simplest feelings.
My lips tip up. “You sound like my dad.”
“He’s a smart man, even though he is somewhat terrifying.” He strokes my dimple, and I find myself imagining what it’d be like to suck his thumb into my mouth.
“There’s that smile,” he whispers against my ear, and I shiver.
I can’t stop shivering, and it’s at least eighty-five degrees in this bar because Willie’s family hasn’t updated the AC since the mid two-thousands.
His thumb continues its distracting swirls, pulling all my focus to him and his rough hands, until the lead singer speaks into the microphone on stage. “Alright folks, we’re gonna start off with a few covers here in a bit, so finish off those beers, grab another round, and find yourself a pretty dance partner.”
“Hey, Killer!” Tyler, one of the Bronc riders, shouts across the bar. “Dance with me!”
I cup my hands around my mouth, earning a few looks from the crowd. “You’re gonna have to ask me nicer than that, sugar!”
Tyler’s a decent one, so he scoots back from his chair and starts heading toward me. Wyatt releases a noise that sounds like a snarl, and beneath the table, I notice his fists clenched.
He slams back his whiskey right as the rest of the band meanders on stage. The lead singer looks like a flannel teddy bear while the fiddle player is a particularly cute brunette with a tattoo sleeve and fluffy curtain bangs.
Wyatt eyes the curtain-banged fiddle player a little too long, and something tightens in my chest the longer he stares. His gaze narrows on her, and then all of a sudden, his mouth curls up into a leisurely curve.
A second later, he smacks the wood. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
I’m almost tempted to stop him because I want him here, next to me. But if he wants to go after another woman, I don’t want to block him. This man deserves all the happiness in the world.
All he does is shoot me a saucy wink over his shoulder as he saunters away. He walks right up to the pretty fiddle player. Then, he starts flirting with her. My stomach plummets.
I know he’s flirting because he does a finger-crook to get her to come closer and then dips his cowboy hat low, whispering in her ear. He says something to make her laugh, and her giggle bullets through me.
I slam back my margarita, only to remember I’ve already drained the whole thing.
My body heats about twenty degrees, and I wonder if people can spark spontaneous fevers. Turns out, I don’t like watching him flirt with other women.
Not one bit.