Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Reese
W e’ve only been at the Rocking Horse bar for thirty minutes, and Piper has already hit me with three bombs.
One: Mom told her I’m dodging her calls.
Two: She’s right.
Three: Apparently, I need to get over it.
And bonus number four—my sister is hellbent on a mission to get drunk. Two beers down, ordering shots like it’s a competitive sport, and swearing she’s absolutely fine .
“I am avoiding Mom,” I mutter, stabbing at a fry. “Not ready to sit through the Vander diatribe. Why would you leave him, Reese? He’s so handsome. So wealthy. So powerful.”
“Newsflash,” Piper says around a sip of her beer. “Mom never liked Vander. Neither did Dad.”
Well, that’s news to me.
I shake my head and down another swallow of beer. “But then it’ll segue into, what are you doing with your life? You’re not getting any younger, Reese. We expected more from you.”
Piper giggles and squeezes my arm. “Trust me, you’re the easy kid. I’m the one they have to worry about.”
“Let’s not forget,” I add, holding up a third finger, “that I have zero idea how to answer Mom if she asks about what you’re doing.”
“She knows.”
My chewing stops mid-bite. I stare at my sister, jaw slack. “You told her you’re working as an escort?”
Piper shrugs, all casual mischief. “I didn’t say it in so many words. I told her I was working in hospitality, which I am. That I’m doing very well, which I am. And that my bank account has more zeros than it ever has before—which it does. She’s happy. I’m happy. Case closed.”
I just gape at her.
“What?” she asks, smirking. “I know you don’t approve.”
I set my burger down and shake my head. “Piper, I’m in awe of you. Honestly. You live life on your own terms, by the seat of your pants, and it’s fucking amazing.”
Her grin falters, turning almost shy. “Thanks, sis. But it’s not like the ranch is just raucous playtime. There are rules.”
I set my burger down, brushing the crumbs from my hands. Then I lean forward, elbows braced on the table like I’m about to negotiate a UN treaty. “Okay. Hit me with them. What are the rules?”
Piper rolls her eyes, lips quirking. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Absolutely. Now spill.”
She pops a fry into her mouth, smirking as she chews. “Fine. First rule—you can’t date a client.”
“Okay, yeah. That makes sense.” I nod, sipping my beer. “I can see where those lines would get pretty blurry. Has it ever happened?”
“If it does, you’re done,” she says flatly. “Capri doesn’t mess around with that. It’s the fastest way to get tossed.”
“And for you?”
Piper shakes her head. “Nope. It’s just business for me. Most of my work is straight escorting—being the sweet girlfriend on someone’s arm, laughing at their jokes, making them feel like they’re the most fascinating man alive.”
I groan. “You get paid for that? Damn. I’ve been giving it away for free.”
She winks. “Stick with me, sis.”
“So, what’s rule number two?”
She lifts her beer, eyes gleaming. “No locals. You can’t date anyone from Tangled Vines. Keeps things clean, keeps it from getting messy in town.”
My stomach dips. Well. There’s strike one.
Not that Griffin was an option. He never was. But at least now I know for certain—whatever passes between us, it’s only flirtation. Nothing more.
I should feel relieved. No more what-ifs. No more lying awake wondering if the way he looks at me means something.
So why do I feel worse instead?
I clear my throat, forcing myself to appear casual. “Like Jimmy?” I nod toward the bartender polishing glasses at the far end.
“Exactly. Or Colton.” Piper gestures with her bottle toward the other side of the bar.
I follow her line of sight. A blond man in a fitted Henley leans against the jukebox, laughing with a group of guys. Broad shoulders, an easy smile, and the kind of presence that fills a room without trying.
“The firefighter?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“The very one.” Piper’s grin widens, a touch too smug. “Local hero. Runs into burning buildings, saves kittens from trees, has abs that apparently put Greek statues to shame.”
“Sounds like someone’s been paying attention,” I tease.
She waves me off, though her cheeks tint pink. “Even if I did, it doesn’t matter. Rule’s a rule.”
This coming from the queen of rule breaking.
“Do you actually enjoy the work?” I ask.
Piper shrugs, unbothered. “Most of the time, yeah. It’s fun. I’ve met some interesting people.”
“And done some interesting things.”
She smirks. “Sis, I was a sex fiend long before I entered this field.”
“Why? Sex is overrated.”
“Translation,” Piper says, “your ex was a terrible lover.”
“He was fine, I guess.”
“No, he was stingy and a serial cheating asshole who never got you off.”
I huff out a breath and take a swallow of beer. “That, too.”
“That’s unacceptable, Reese.”
I throw up my hands, noting the mischievous glint in her eyes. “What do you want me to do about it? Some people enjoy sex and others don’t. Simple as that.”
“Absolutely not.” Piper stands and waves her hands at someone behind me, motioning them over. “Griffin. Just the man we need to talk to.”
Oh, no, Piper. What are you planning?
Then I catch it. Her classic ‘I’ve had a bit too much to drink, and now all bets are off’ smile.
Griffin slides onto the stool beside me, all easy swagger and dimples. He tips his head, that smile wicked enough to melt the strongest resolve. “What can I do for you lovely ladies?”
Piper bangs her fry down like a gavel. “My sister has had a tragic run with terrible men.” She raises her glass in a toast to no one, her tone growing theatrical. “And she needs—no, nay, she deserves —to be laid properly. To experience the full depth and breadth of the female orgasm.”
“Will you please shut up?” I grip her arm, but there’s no stopping this horse once it’s left the stable.
She points a dramatic finger at Griffin. “And I think you’re the man for the job.”
Oh. My. God. This is worse than the shirtless cowboy situation. At least then, it was just the two of us. Now half of Tangled Vines is going to think I’m auditioning Griffin for the role of my personal sex god.
I need to leave the planet and never return.
Griffin arches a brow at me, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Is she drunk?”
“Yes.” I bury my face in my hands. “She’s absolutely drunk. Ignore everything that comes out of her mouth.”
“Hmm.” His voice dips, low and teasing, like he already knows the answer. “So you don’t need to be laid properly?”
I groan into my palms. Apparently, everyone wants to get in on the fun at my expense. “I’m good.”
Biggest lie of my life, but self-preservation wins.
The stool creaks as he shifts closer, but I refuse to look at him, opting instead to take a swig of my beer.
“No toe-curling, can’t-walk-straight-the-next-day, kind of sex?” he murmurs, voice dark velvet at my ear.
That does it. The beer goes down the wrong pipe, and I sputter, coughing hard enough to make Piper snort-laugh.
Griffin doesn’t let me escape. His mouth grazes the nape of my neck in a move that is fleeting yet utterly devastating.
“An absolutely perfect spot for kissing,” he whispers before pulling back.
I’m a puddle of melted woman on a barstool. There’s no recovering from this.
Across the room, someone calls his name, waving him toward the stage.
Griffin straightens, tossing one last look over his shoulder—eyes blazing with promise. “Stick around, Reese. I’ve got something special for you tonight.”
Of course Griffin’s a hell of a musician. His voice is low and gravelly, the kind that slides over your skin and stays there. And those hands—confident, precise, like the guitar was made for him. Add in the way he owns the room, and it isn’t fair. Not one damn bit.
The local women eat it up. They crowd the stage, swaying in tight clusters, gazes glued to him like he’s the second coming.
Does it bother me? Hell yes, but Griffin Topete doesn’t belong to me. He never will.
What I do have is my sister, beer, and some damn fine music.
We twirl in the middle of the dance floor, boots scuffing worn wood, giggling like we used to when we were kids. For the first time in longer than I care to admit, I feel free.
Every so often I sneak a glance at the stage—and every single time, Griffin’s blue eyes are locked on me. Not the girls pressed at his feet. Me.
No. Not possible. Just me imagining things.
Until I offer a timid wave, and he winks, tipping his hat.
Oh, hell. Not my imagination.
Then his voice rumbles through the mic, sending a shiver down my spine.
“I want everyone to give a warm welcome to Tangled Vines’ newest resident. She came here all the way from New York, and she’s already turning people in this town on their heads.” His gaze zeroes in on me, a grin splitting his face. “Say hello, Reese.”
Piper claps her hands and hollers, and the whole damn bar stops and stares.
Heat floods my cheeks. I manage a tiny wave. “Hi, guys.”
I am so not good at being the center of attention.
Seems Griffin doesn’t care as he crosses the stage and hunkers down by the corner closest to me.
“She and her sister look like they’re having a good time,” Griffin drawls, that teasing smile still on his lips. “But I’m hoping I might make it even better. Ready, boys?”
I know the song on the first note. They’re playing Bright Side of the Road by Van Morrison. My favorite.
I veer off the dance floor and snatch my beer from the table. The glass chills my palm, but the sip never makes it to my lips. “Griffin said he didn’t know this song,” I whisper, staring at the stage like an awe-struck teenager.
“Someone’s got a crush.” Piper bumps her hip into mine and steals the beer right out of my hand.
“I do not.”
Liar, liar.
“Who said anything about you?” She grins wickedly and grabs my hand, tugging me back into the spin of dancers.
We whirl, we laugh, we belt out lyrics like we’re teenagers again. And every time I look up, Griffin is there, smiling like the song belongs to me.
Then he leans back into the mic. “Think we’ve got one more. This one’s for you too, Reese.”
The band shifts gears, softer this time, more deliberate. Another Van Morrison classic—the love song that unravels me. Crazy Love.
Piper loops her arm around my shoulders, giggling as we sway. Before I can catch my breath, Jimmy steps in, offering his hand with a grin.
“How about a dance, Ms. Reese? If Piper doesn’t mind sharing.”
My sister presses a hand to her chest, mock glaring at the comely bartender. “Fine. But only one, Jimmy. Return her in one piece.”
He twirls me into an easy rhythm, steady and kind—the exact sort of man I should want. But my smile slips the second I glance at the stage.
Griffin’s eyes are locked on me again. Not playful. Not smiling. Brow furrowed, jaw tight—like the song isn’t for the room, it’s for me alone.
And here I am, dancing with another man.
A shiver ripples through me, even in the press of bodies on the dance floor.
There’s no way Griffin is jealous. Absolutely not. He doesn’t get jealous. He has no reason to be. We’re not dating. We’re not even close to dating. He fucks women for a living, for God’s sake.
But the way he’s looking at me?
It scorches, like a brand pressed to my skin.
And then—just like that—his gaze cuts away. For the rest of the song, Griffin doesn’t glance my way. He stares out over the crowd like I’ve ceased to exist.
I focus on Jimmy’s polite chatter, grateful for the distraction, but the moment feels… off.
When the last notes fade, I clap along with the crowd, louder than I need to. “Amazing!” I call up to the stage, my voice carrying despite the noise.
Griffin doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t even flicker. Just gives a stiff nod to the crowd before setting his guitar aside and turning his attention to the women swarming him.
Of course. Just me reading into things again.
Note to self: never pour beer on your heartstrings—it makes you see things that aren’t there.
“Thanks for the dance,” I tell Jimmy with a polite smile before slipping back toward Piper.
She’s already at the bar settling the tab. “Ready to go?”
I lean my head on my hand, my gaze slipping to the other side of the bar. Seeking out Griffin. “Yes. My bed is calling.”
“Mm-hmm.” That infuriating smirk spreads across her face. “Did you have fun?”
“I did.”
“Told you he liked you.”
“Jimmy?” I arch a brow and smile at the bartender, once again hard at work mixing drinks.
“Probably him too. But I meant Griffin.”
I glance back across the bar to where the soulful cowboy is leaning, beer in hand, laughing with a group of women hanging on his every word. My stomach knots.
“I think you’re mistaken, sis. He looks happily occupied.”
Occupied. Surrounded. Larger than life. Every inch the man women would sell their souls to touch.
Stop it, Reese. Stop reading into things that aren’t there. That’s the stuff of rom-coms and fairy tales, not your reality.
The truth burns in my chest, though I’d sooner die than admit it.
Do I want to drag every one of those women away from him? Maybe.
But he’s not mine, and he never will be.
I remind myself of that fact one last time before hooking my arm through Piper’s and steering her toward the door.