BOONE #2
It doesn’t take long before we pull into the gravel lot outside The Lucky Devil, Summit Springs’ last real dive bar.
The building’s squat and stubborn, patched up so many times it’s basically a Frankenstein of plywood and peeling paint.
The flickering devil sign above the door looks like it’s one bad night away from catching fire, and the porch light hangs crooked, like someone tried to fix it after one too many shots and gave up halfway through.
The place is packed. Trucks lined up in every direction, dirt caked on tires, tailgates down where people are still finishing their drinks before heading inside. You can hear the music from out here—low and thumping, some old country song with too much twang and a good rhythm.
I park Lucille toward the back, kill the engine, and pull the keys.
As soon as we step out, the sound gets louder, clearer.
I round the truck to meet Lark and my hand instinctively finds the small of her back before we even hit the door.
No way in hell I’m walking in there without letting every man in that bar know she’s with me.
The air is thick with smoke and sweat and the sharp tang of spilled beer that’s seeped into the wood over the years.
The place hasn’t changed much—dim lighting, scuffed floors, booths along the walls with duct tape patch jobs on the cushions.
A jukebox flickers near the back corner, mostly for decoration since there’s a live band tonight, three guys on stage playing something fast, the kind of song you dance to with your boots stomping.
There’s a line dance going strong near the bar, boots hitting the floor in sync, while a couple of guys argue over a pool table off to the side.
Dart boards hang crooked on the far wall, lit by a flickering Bud Light sign that’s been on the verge of dying since I was twenty.
In one corner, there’s a mop and bucket parked next to a sign that reads, “If you puke, you clean.” Summit Springs hospitality at its finest.
We barely make it three steps before I spot Riley Hart behind the bar—one of Vaughn Hart’s boys, around the same age as me and exactly the kind of guy you’d expect to find slinging drinks in a place like this.
He’s got that easy grin, the kind that makes you feel like you’re in on some inside joke, and a laugh that carries clear across the room.
Of course, he’s already got two girls draped over the bar, leaning in like whatever he’s saying about whiskey is the sexiest thing they’ve ever heard.
A few heads turn as we walk in, more than one cowboy tipping his hat in Lark’s direction. I keep my hand right where it is—firm on the curve of her back—because tonight she’s mine, and I’m not going to be subtle about it.
Lark leans into me, her voice barely audible against the noise. “Where do you want to sit?”
I glance around, though I already know the answer. “Our spot,” I say, tipping my chin toward the booth in the far corner—the one we used to stake out back in high school when we’d sneak in with fake IDs and too much confidence. “I’ll grab our drinks.”
She tilts her head, giving me that half-smile that never fails to mess with my head. “A lemon drop, please,” she says.
I raise an eyebrow .
“What?” she crosses her arms.
I lean in just enough so only she can hear. “That’s the most you drink I’ve ever heard.”
She grins and nudges my ribs with her elbow. “What are you getting?”
“Just one ranch water,” I say, sliding my hand down her back as we walk toward the booth. “Gotta drive us home.”
She nods, settling into the seat, her legs crossing under the table, her skirt hitching up just enough to test my willpower. “I’ll wait for you.”
I make my way to the bar and slap my palm on the counter, loud enough to cut through the music and the hum of conversation.
“Riley.”
He looks up, grin already spreading like he was just waiting for trouble to walk through the door.
“Well, shit. Boone Wilding. Didn’t know the prodigal cowboy was back in town.”
I smirk. “Didn’t know you were still working this shithole, Hart.”
He lets out a loud laugh, tossing the rag over his shoulder. “What can I say? The people love me.”
Riley’s always been the same—fast with a joke, louder than necessary, and somehow still likable despite all of it.
The kind of guy who could charm the pants off you while selling you a watered-down whiskey and make you feel good about it.
Our families have never been close, but Riley’s never given me a reason not to trust him, so I don’t waste my time second-guessing it.
“What’ll it be?” he asks, reaching for a clean glass.
“Lemon drop and a ranch water.”
He raises an eyebrow, already grabbing the bottles. “Lemon drop? That for you?”
I shoot him a look.
“I’m fucking with you,” he says, his shit-eating grin stretching wider as he starts pouring. “You here with Lark Westwood?”
I pause. Just long enough for him to catch it. My jaw tightens. “Yeah.”
Riley lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Good on you, man. She’s a smoke show.”
I glance over my shoulder. She’s in the booth now, legs crossed, hair a little messy—looking way too pretty for a place like this.
“I know,” I say, because there’s no use pretending otherwise.
He lines up the lemon drop and slides it across the bar like he’s done it a thousand times. “What’s she doing with such an ugly motherfucker?”
I bark out a laugh as I grab the drink. “Must be my sparkling personality.”
He pours a tequila shot for the guy next to me, still smiling like this is the most fun he’s had all night. “Nah. Bet it’s the truck. Women eat that shit up.”
“You should try it sometime.”
“No, thanks. I like to keep expectations low,” he shoots back. “Helps with the disappointment.”
I shake my head, grabbing the drinks. “You’re a damn mess.”
He crosses his arms. “She’s the owner of the Bluebell, right?”
“Figures.” He scratches his jaw, like he’s debating saying something. “My dad’s been running his mouth about the place. Some bullshit about permits and property lines. You know how he is—starts talking and half the town gets nervous.”
I keep my face neutral, but I file it away. “He sniffing around?”
“Nothing official. Just noise, for now.” Riley shrugs. “Thought I’d give you a heads-up, though.”
I nod once, pull out my phone under the bar, and fire off a quick text to Miller: Hart sniffing around Bluebell. Permits. Can you dig?
Her reply comes seconds later: I’ll see what I can find . Also , have you defiled Lark yet or are you still on that cowboy gentleman bullshit?
I shake my head, biting back a smile.
God bless Miller and her inability to mind her business.
I reach for my wallet, but Riley shakes his head. “Heard you’re back from the military, is that right?”
“Couple months now.”
He tips his chin, like that’s all he needs. “Drinks are on the house. Thanks for your service, man. ”
I pause, then lift the glass, meet his eyes. “Appreciate it.”
Riley jerks his chin toward the back booth, casually wiping down the bar. “You might wanna get back to your girl.”
I follow his gaze—and my whole body goes tight.
Aaron fucking Dixon.
Leaning over the table, elbow propped, that easy smile on his face like he doesn’t notice Lark’s spine has gone ramrod straight. Her arms are crossed, shoulders drawn in, and that smile she’s wearing? No teeth. Zero warmth.
Then she looks at me.
Eyes sharp. Direct. Asking without saying a word.
Get the hell over here.
I grab the drinks off the bar, jaw clenched hard enough it hurts, and head that way. There’s a slow, heavy pull in my chest with each step. Not anger exactly—just that low, cold feeling that comes with seeing something you care about handled wrong.
By the time I reach the table, Aaron’s still talking and I catch him mid-sentence.
“—and if you ever want a real ride, not one of those trail horses over at Wilding’s ranch, you just let me know. We break ‘em the old-fashioned way out at Tate’s. Come see ‘em if you’d like.”
He grins like he’s said something clever. Lark shifts, eyes flicking to me like she’s ready to tap out.
“Dixon,” I say, voice level, setting the drinks down on the table. His eyes cut to me, then back to her, calculating.
I step in a little closer. “Appreciate you keeping my girl company while I grabbed the drinks, but I can take it from here.”
He swallows, the bravado slipping just enough to satisfy me. He grabs his cowboy hat off the seat beside Lark and straightens. “Course. Didn’t mean to intrude.”
I nod once. “By the way, those ‘trail horses’ you’re talking about? Out-sold Tate’s the last decade and a half now. But I get it. Not everyone’s used to riding the best. ”
His shoulders stiffen and he tips his hat once at Lark before disappearing back toward the dance floor.
I watch him walk off until he’s swallowed up by the crowd. Lark makes a sound, soft and amused, and when I look at her, she’s grinning.
“What?” I ask, still scowling.
She sips her lemon drop, eyes gleaming. “You. All demonic and possessive. It’s hot.”
That pulls a laugh out of me before I can stop it. I shake my head, sliding into the booth beside her.
Lark takes a sip of her drink, tilting her head just slightly when she swallows, and my eyes lock on the long line of her throat—the way it moves, the way her lips part just before, the way that tiny freckle at the base of her neck catches the light.
The one I’ve kissed more times than I can count.
The one I’ve bitten when she’s moaning my name, her hands all tangled up in my hair.
And now my brain’s gone to shit because all I can think about is her mouth. On me. Wrapped around me. Her eyes locked on mine like she’s daring me to fall apart for her.
My grip tightens around the glass in my hand, and I shift in my seat, forcing my body to chill the fuck out before I make a scene in the middle of the bar.
But it’s too late. I’m already hard.
If I stand up right now, it’s over. There’s no hiding a boner, not in these jeans.