2. Ava
CHAPTER 2
Ava
HANDSOME STRANGERS AND SERIAL KILLERS
“Oh, God, I am so”—glancing over my shoulder, I lock eyes with a very tall, very hot guy wearing a backward baseball hat—“sorry.”
My stomach takes a nosedive at the look of genuine concern in his cobalt-blue eyes.
“You okay?” he shouts above the sound of the music.
I nod, pulse taking off at a sprint. “You? I’m so sorry.”
This guy is the kind of handsome that makes it hard to breathe. He’s sporting dark scruff, thicker along his upper lip. His facial features rival Brad Pitt’s in masculine beauty—straight nose, square jaw, full mouth.
He releases my arm before his eyes flick to my torso. A pair of indents appear between his brows. “Your shirt. Here, I have some wipes—napkins. I’ll get you some napkins?—”
The way he stumbles over his words is adorable.
Also, did he just say wipes ?
“I’m okay, really?—”
“You’re soaked.” He tilts his head toward the bar. “C’mon, let’s clean you up.”
Without waiting for a reply, he heads off the dance floor. I take the opportunity to shamelessly check him out.
He’s gorgeous . He’s well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and big arms that fill out his dark green checkered button-up to perfection. He’s wearing Levi’s that are somehow fitted and broken in at the same time. Square-toed cowboy boots complete the ensemble, along with that backward hat that reads Bellamy Brooks Boots .
Is he a cowboy?
As a girl who grew up on a ranch—albeit a small one—that’s my first thought. I’ve always had eyes for cowboys. Who doesn’t? But everyone tells you they’re trouble, so I never pursued one. Didn’t help that I started dating Dan at seventeen.
Everyone, men and women, ogle this guy as he moves across the room.
Dottie appears at my elbow. “I think you’re supposed to follow him.”
“I’ll hip-check you again if you don’t,” Bee says.
I glare at her. “Did you do that on purpose?”
Knitting her brows together, she shrugs. “No?”
“Bee—”
“What? I saw him checking you out. He’s hot. You’re hot. I could tell he wanted to say hi, so I did y’all a solid and broke the ice. Remember, the more frogs you kiss?—”
“Right.” My heart skips several beats.
Mr. Mustached Maybe Cowboy was checking me out? I didn’t even notice.
Dottie’s eyes bore into mine. “ Follow him .”
I glance across the bar. Somehow my eyes find his. My stomach does that nosediving thing again. He holds up a stack of square bar napkins.
His mustache looks more prominent from far away. I like it.
A lot.
My shirt is soaked. And why not flirt a little, enjoy myself a bit? If it’s awkward or weird, I can just come back to dance with my sisters.
He is so much cuter than, well, every other man in existence.
Finishing what’s left of my beer, I head for the bar. It’s not quiet over here, but it is quiet er .
Quiet enough that I can hear Mustached Maybe Cowboy say as he looks me up and down, “Aw, man, I got you good, didn’t I? I’m real sorry.”
His words drip with a honeyed drawl. I resist the urge to bite my lip. Okay, the accent is hot.
Really freaking hot.
“Don’t be. I’m the one who bumped into you.”
He holds out the napkins. I set my empty bottle down on the bar and take them, blotting self-consciously at my shirt.
“Or, really, I was pushed. Seriously, I’m so sorry about that. My sister?—”
“Is an enthusiastic fan of Johnny Cash.” A dimple pops in both cheeks as he grins. “I don’t blame her. ‘Ring of Fire’ will get anyone riled up.”
“That’s why I requested it. Although now I kind of regret that decision.”
“Regret Johnny?” He makes a psssh sound. “Never. I was about to drop some money in that bucket myself, but you beat me to it.”
I grin, looking up. Our eyes lock again, and my internal organs all somersault in unison. There’s an intensity to his gaze that makes the sounds and sights of the bar sort of … fade away.
Maybe because his eyes are so, so blue? I’ve never seen a color like that before—the deep, vibrant cobalt of brand-new denim.
“That so?” I’m practically staring at this point. “What song were you going to request?”
His dimples deepen. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”
I blush so furiously that it feels like my face is on fire. I still know how to flirt, right?
I sincerely hope I do.
Looking down, I notice the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, revealing impossibly huge, deeply tanned forearms. One of them is tattooed with a line of large, elegant script— Ella . His mom? Maybe his kid?
“Are you asking me to body-slam you again?” I nod at the dance floor. “I know I’m hard to resist out there.”
He laughs, the sound rich and real, and a rush of warmth moves through me. “Didn’t bother me. I have lots of experience being body-slammed.”
“You do?” My turn to laugh.
He shrugs. “Four brothers.”
“Ah.”
“Being body-slammed by a girl, though …” His eyes dance. “Way different experience.”
“Was it as good for you as it was for me?” I pluck at my shirt, holding up the beer stain.
He’s laughing again, and the warmth inside my skin notches up a degree. Mustached Maybe Cowboy is surprisingly easy to talk to.
Logically, I know not all men are moody grumps. But I was with one for so long, I think my nervous system might take some convincing.
A bartender appears, holding out a white towel and a glass of what looks like club soda. “Towel’s clean, but no dice on the Tide pen. Sorry, boss.”
Cowboy takes the towel and water. “Appreciate you checking. Thanks.”
My knees get this weird, tingly feeling when he offers them to me.
I put a hand on the bar to steady myself. “What’s this?”
“Told you we’d get you cleaned up. Sorry about the Tide. I usually have a pen or two on me, but … yeah, if it’s just beer, club soda should do the trick. I’m kind of an expert in getting stains out.”
“Of course you are.” Blinking slowly, I take the towel and club soda. My heart drums inside my chest.
In addition to being obscenely hot, is this guy also helpful? Considerate? Thoughtful? Honestly, I couldn’t care less about my shirt, but this cowboy?—
He definitely cares.
“Thanks.” I dip the towel in the water and get to work on my shirt. “That was really kind of you.”
The bartender returns with a pair of Shiner Bocks.
“Took the liberty of ordering you another beer too,” Cowboy explains.
My right knee wobbles precariously. Holy shit, am I in the midst of a legitimate swoon? “Stop.”
“Stop what?” He sets a beer on the counter in front of me.
“Who are you, and what are you planning to do with my lifeless body after your little ruse to charm and abduct me works?”
He grins. “So it is working.”
“Hell yeah it’s working.” I grab my beer and take a long, slightly panicked sip.
Laughing, he holds out a hand. “I’m Sawyer.”
I look down at the huge mitt of his hand. Look up at him and let out a little chuckle of disbelief.
He cocks a brow.
“It’s just … a nice name.” I slide my hand into his, my body igniting at the warm, dry feel of his palm pressed against mine. I give it a solid squeeze and look him in the eye, just like my dad taught me, and I don’t miss the way his gaze flickers when he squeezes back.
One side of his mouth kicks up. “‘Nice’?”
“Don’t make me say it.”
“Say what?”
I let out a huff. “Fine. It’s a hot name. Like, a hot guy name.”
He keeps his hand wrapped around mine. “Do I fit the bill?”
A smile, big and broad, breaks out on my face. “I’m Ava.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”
“Nothin’.” He squeezes my hand one last time before dropping it. “It’s just, yeah, a hot girl name. You definitely fit the bill, Ava.”
Oh God oh God why does my name sound so sexy when he says it?
“Are all serial killers so smooth?” Dropping the towel, I give up on my shirt.
His lips twitch as he sips his Shiner. “You from Austin?”
“I’m not. We’re in town for a girls’ weekend.” I point a finger toward my sisters, who are trying, and quite clearly failing, to look like they’re not watching my every move. “You?”
“My brother Cash”—he points to a tall guy in a white cowboy hat—“just got engaged. We’re here to celebrate.”
“Bachelor party. Gotcha.”
“Kinda. One of my brothers couldn’t come, so …” Sawyer lifts a massive shoulder, tucking his free hand into his front pocket. “I mean, Cash wasn’t into the idea, so we pitched the trip as a team-building thing. We all work together.”
“Really? That’s cool. What do y’all do?”
He sips his beer. “Ranchers.”
My pulse skips. “Cowboys?”
“Born and raised, yeah.”
I hung out with plenty of cowboys when I lived on the ranch, and then again when I was on the barrel racing circuit in my late teens and early twenties. They can be wild, sure, but maybe …
I don’t know, maybe wild is what I’m looking for? Maybe it’s what was missing from the hookups I had.
“Very cool.” I tip back my longneck, trying not to gulp the beer. I need to slow down. Now is not the time to get sloppy. Not when a cute, considerate cowboy is looking at me like that .
Like he very much wants to know more. Do more.
“What about you?” His eyes trail down my neck and chest, sending a pulse of heat through my center. “What do you do, Ava?”
“I just got a new job, actually.”
The skin at the edges of his eyes crinkles. “Sounds like that’s a good thing?”
“A very good thing.”
“But you’re not gonna tell me what it is. The very good new job.”
I push off the bar, straightening so that my elbow grazes his stomach as I lift my beer to my lips. “I have to make sure you’re not going to dismember me or my family first. The less you know, the better.”
He grins. I have the sudden urge to stick my tongue inside his dimple, the one on his right cheek.
“Am I allowed to know if you’d like to body-slam me again?” He glances at the dance floor.
I blink, realizing the band is playing a Shenandoah cover, “Two Dozen Roses.” How did I miss that?
Looking up at Sawyer, I have my answer. Right. The super-hot cowboy who keeps flirting with me.
“Sounds kinda dirty when you say it like that.” I step forward.
He steps forward, too, so that our faces are mere inches apart. “I’ll make it as dirty as you want, Ava.”
We burst out laughing at the same time.
He runs a hand over his scruff. Is that a pink flush working its way up his neck? “Sorry. That was … really bad, wasn’t it?”
I give him a nudge. “Bright side, I know you’re not a serial killer now. They can’t be that cheesy.”
They can’t be that endearingly, adorably embarrassed.
“I’m just a little rusty.” He holds up his hand and pinches his fingers together. “I don’t really go out anymore.”
“Sawyer, I haven’t been out to a bar in … Lord, I don’t even know how long. If anyone is rusty, it’s me.”
He smiles. “So you’ll body-slam—I mean dance—you’ll dance with me, then?” He holds out his hand.
I take it. How could I not? Dan didn’t dance. He didn’t want me dancing, either. A man encouraging me to do my thing on the dance floor is a really nice change of pace.
“This is one of my favorite songs, so yeah. I’d love to.”
Without thinking, I swipe my thumb across the back of his hand. I’m not sure why I do it. I’m just … feeling this, I guess. Feeling us , and touching him this way feels like a small, safe admission that I want more of whatever it is he’s giving me.
Maybe three times really is a charm. What do I have to lose?
“I’d love to body-slam you. Let’s do it.”
Burns, burns, burns.
My entire being burns as Sawyer leads me to the dance floor.