Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Cards on the Table
Sawyer
The sky over Lovelace bruised purple as I eased into the Ropers’ parking lot. The neon beer sign in the window buzzed like a lazy hornet, throwing a pink smear across my windshield. I killed the engine and just sat there with my hands on the wheel, the truck ticking as it cooled.
I checked my phone again.
Nothing from Lilly.
I told myself she was busy at Bloom & Vine, that Mondays ate people alive, that she’d text later with an update about setting up her doctor’s appointment , or to just say hi.
What I really wanted was a simple “Made the appointment” so I could breathe. I hated that I cared about timelines and dosage charts, but there it was—if she’d started the pills, we’d still have a couple of weeks to wait. The thought of that wait tightened my jaw.
The memory of Saturday flared bright enough to warm the cab. Her knees snugged behind my hips on Grace, chin on my shoulder as we cut down the trail to the lake. The way she’d laughed when the wind pulled her hair loose.
Lilly had opened up in small ways that felt big, and I’d surprised myself by meeting her there—saying more than I meant to about nights I don’t talk about, about the weight I carry and how it doesn’t always stay where I put it.
I wanted more of that. More of her. Skin and softness, sure, but also the quiet after—her breath on my chest told me I wasn’t just chasing heat.
I thumbed the phone screen once more, like maybe a message could be coaxed into existence.
Still empty.
Hope and frustration sawed against each other in my ribs. Part of me wanted to drive over to the Bloom & Vine and find an excuse to step inside—buy eucalyptus I didn’t need, pretend I was there for Sunny. The other part told me to get a grip, quit hovering, let the day be what it was.
The phone slipped into my back pocket, and I stepped into the evening air with a deep breath. The heel of my boots sounded against the sidewalk. The air had that clean, high-country bite to it, which usually cleared my head whether I wanted it to or not.
I rolled my shoulders once and headed for the door, still half expecting my pocket to buzz, still not sure what I’d do if it did.
The scent of grilled meat and fried onions wrapped around me the second I stepped inside Ropers.
Monday nights were quieter than weekends—just a handful of regulars scattered at the bar and a couple of ranch hands hunched over the pool table in the corner.
Bruce had already claimed a booth by the window, a tall draft sweating in front of him.
“Bout time you showed,” he said, grinning as he pushed a second beer across the table toward me. “Figured you’d chicken out on letting me buy you dinner.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, sliding into the booth. The cold beer tasted like relief after the dry air outside.
The waitress brought menus, but Bruce waved her off. “Your ribeyes, medium rare, with loaded baked potatoes. He’ll take the same,” he said, jerking his thumb at me.
I just shook my head. “Guess I don’t get a choice.”
“Not when I’m paying, and I’m pretty sure of what you’re going to order anyway,” he shot back, eyes gleaming.
We swapped small talk until the food came, but I knew Bruce well enough to sense he had a story burning a hole in his pocket. Sure enough, halfway through his steak, he set his fork down and leaned back with the smug satisfaction of a man who’d just won a bet.
“Got those poachers the other day,” he said.
I raised a brow. “Yeah? Thought they were ghosts the way they kept slipping past everyone.”
“Not ghosts. Greedy bastards.” He grinned, clearly savoring the telling.
“Turned out to be some hotshot guide from over in Big Sky.
Charging his clients an arm and a leg, promising them trophies he had no right to deliver.
Had them set up right on the wrong side of the line. I caught ‘em red-handed.”
I let out a low whistle. “Bet they weren’t too happy about it.”
Bruce’s grin widened. “Happy? Hell no. One of ‘em tried to argue they didn’t know. But I had GPS pins, trail cam photos, the whole works. Our team slapped fines on ‘em that’ll sting for a good long while. Guide’s license is getting reviewed, too. Serves him right.”
I cut into my steak, shaking my head. “You sound damn pleased with yourself.”
“I am,” he said without apology. “People think they can buy their way into a big rack, cut corners, cheat the land. Doesn’t sit right with me.”
I respected that about Bruce. He had a code, and he stuck to it. As he launched into more details—the number of rifles confiscated, the look on the clients’ faces—I found myself grinning along, not so much at the story but at the man’s satisfaction.
Still, my mind kept drifting between nods and bites of baked potato to a different kind of game, a different sort of risk. My thoughts landed on Lilly, and whether she was somewhere thinking of me, also.
Bruce’s voice pulled me back, but the echo of her laugh on our trail ride lingered in my head, sweeter than any victory over poachers.
The back room at Ropers smelled like cigar smoke and spilled beer, the type that clung to your clothes no matter how quickly you got home to shower.
Bruce pushed open the swinging door, and sure enough, Easton and Joe were already at the table, a deck of cards fanned between them and a mountain of poker chips piled in the middle like bait.
“Took you long enough,” Easton said, shoving a stack of chips my way. “We were about to start without you.”
“Never dreamed of ghosting you,” I said, dropping into the chair across from him.
Joe leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, the brim of his cap shadowing his eyes. “Bruce buy you that steak yet, or did he weasel out?”
Bruce chuckled, pulling his chair closer. “I bought him the best damn ribeye in the county. Paid him back for a favor.”
We anted up, cards sliding across the table, chips clacking as hands were sorted. The banter was easy— it came with years of shared ground and not much else to do on a Monday night.
Easton glanced up from his cards. “My Harley finally got confirmed. Dealer says a month, maybe two.”
Bruce snorted. “Hope you get it before the Sturgis rally.”
That earned a round of laughter, but Easton just smirked and tossed in a bet. “I hope so, too. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
Then, just like that, he shifted gears. “Speaking of waiting—you know Lilly’s having financial trouble, right?”
My head jerked up. “What makes you think I’d know that?”
The question earned a chorus of snickers.
Joe leaned forward, tapping his cards on the table. “This is Lovelace, son. Everybody knows everything. Secrets don’t last around here.”
My jaw tightened. I hated that Lilly’s life was spread across barroom chatter, hated more that I didn’t know how much of it was true.
Bruce threw in another chip, clearly uninterested in the turn the conversation had taken. But Joe wasn’t done. He shot me a grin. “So how’s it going with the elusive florist?”
I shrugged, playing it neutral. “Fine.”
Easton chuckled, giving Joe a sideways look. “Don’t rile him up. He’s working hard at keeping that temper in check.”
“PTSD,” Joe said, nodding like it was a fact written on my forehead.
I forced a low and easy laugh, but the words sat heavy inside.
They weren’t wrong. Some nights, the noise in my head roared louder than anything around me.
But what weighed me down more than the past was the present—the picture of Lilly bent over her flowers, sunlight in her hair, and the gnawing question of whether she wanted me enough to push through the mess I carried with me.
I tossed in a chip, raised the pot, and did my best to look like a man focused on the game, not one coming apart at the seams over a woman he couldn’t get out of his head.
The poker game broke up with the usual grumbling—Bruce crowing over his winnings, Joe swearing he’d been dealt garbage all night, Easton promising he’d clean us out next time. I pushed my chair back and followed them out, the noise of the bar swelling around us again.
June was wiping down the counter, her ponytail swinging as she leaned over to catch a spot of spilled beer.
When she saw me, her mouth curved into a sly smile.
She set the rag aside and braced her elbows on the bar, leaning in close enough that the light caught the green flecks in her eyes.
“You look like a lonely cowboy,” she drawled, voice smooth as the whiskey bottles lined up behind her.
“You know I can make you smile… at least for a while.”
For a half second, I let the offer hang there. We had traveled this road a time or two before. She was pretty, no doubt about it—a lot of fun—and the easy road stretched clear right in front of me. One nod, one grin, and I wouldn’t be heading home alone.
But that wasn’t what I wanted.
I shook my head, giving her a polite smile that I hoped didn’t sting. “Appreciate it, June. But not tonight.”
Her eyes narrowed just a fraction, then she shrugged like it was no skin off her back and moved to the other end of the bar.
I slid a bill across the counter for a beer I hadn’t even ordered, more to fill the silence than anything.
My thoughts weren’t on June, or the bar, or the game I’d just lost a few chips on.
They were back on a woman who smelled like expensive perfume and laughed like the world might be worth living in after all.
Lilly.
She was the one I wanted. The only one.
The night hit me with a chill the second I stepped outside Ropers. The door thudded shut behind me, muffling the laughter and clatter inside. The sky stretched wide and sharp overhead, stars scattered so clear they looked close enough to grab.
I pulled out my phone, thumb hovering like it had all damn night—still nothing from Lilly. Part of me was half-crazy enough to think she might just show up at my place again, unannounced, like she had before. The thought of it twisted me up—hope and frustration in equal measure.
Then the screen lit in my hand, the vibration sharp against my palm. My chest kicked, stupidly sure it’d be what I wanted. Instead, I got.
Lilly: I miss you, but I need some time to think.
The words gutted me. Simple. Final. No room to argue with a text.
I shoved the phone back in my pocket and let out a laugh, low and hollow. The guys’ voices still rang in my ears—Joe’s cracks about Lilly, Easton’s warning not to rile me. They thought I was holding myself together, maybe even winning. Truth was, I was already in over my head.
Hooked.
And no amount of poker, beer, or easy offers from bartenders was ever going to change that.