Chapter 16
maverick
“Idon’t know, Mav.” Celine looks at me with her baby-blue eyes, the ones I always thought were harmless, though I have reassessed my opinion since the reading of the will.
“The Gunnison Auction is just a few weeks away. Look, it’s not going to work out anyway. And then she’ll be happy to sign Longhorn off. Now, she’ll just fight you the whole way.” I nod at the bartender at Blackwood Prime when he looks at me.
Yeah, I need another drink. I’ve been trying to convince Celine to allow the sale of thirty acres to go through for the past hour and a half.
We’ve had lunch. She’s had three glasses of wine.
I’m heading to my second beer, which I never do in the middle of the day, and she’s still batting her eyelashes at me.
“What if she doesn’t fail?” Celine chews her lower lip.
She’s desperate for money. That much is obvious.
I’ve heard from those who know, one of them being my foreman, Zane Bishop, that Hudson has been playing high-stakes poker in underground games over in Aspen, where the buy-ins are obscene and the people around the table don’t forgive debts, they collect.
Our man Hudson is in debt. The only thing saving his bones is the fact that his wife is coming into a shit ton of money now that Rami Delgado has passed.
“She’ll fail,” I assure her.
The words taste bitter in my mouth. I don’t want Aria to fail. I want that strong woman to succeed.
She lets out a deep exhale. “She’s saying she wants to hire an extra hand.”
“She probably needs to.”
Celine taps her fingers on the bar counter. “Okay. I’ll…let Mac know that I’m fine with the sale.”
“And that the money goes back into the ranch.” She’s slippery, and I want to cross all my t’s and then some.
“Yes, of course. We have to give her a chance to fail, don’t we?” She smiles. “You know, Mav, you’re a whole lot more of a mercenary than I thought you’d be.”
I arch an eyebrow.
“Aria thinks your offer is generous. When she finds out you’re just giving her enough rope to hang herself…well, I’m going to be there to tell her, I told you so.” There’s malice in her expression. It makes me flinch.
The Celine you see from a distance is like a well-fenced pasture—pretty, clean, orderly. But get closer, and you realize the fence is patched with baling twine, the grass is dying, and there’s a rattlesnake coiled under every Goddamn rock.
Kaz texts me just as I’m about to hit the shower—after which I fully intended to call it a night with a cold beer and a ballgame.
Apparently, Aria is getting good and drunk at The Rusty Spur, and her tongue’s loose enough to make it a show.
Thirty minutes later—ten of which I spent scrubbing off the barn—I’m pushing through the doors of The Rusty Spur, bracing for a sloshed Aria.
Country music’s thumping from the stage—live tonight, a local band whose lead singer’s too good to still be playing in bars, but maybe he loves the Canyon too much to leave it.
The place smells like whiskey, frying grease, and the faint sour tang of beer-soaked wood.
The Spur is housed in a long, narrow building with a wraparound bar, low lights, and a dance floor that’s already full of boot-scootin’ ranch hands and women in denim skirts and cowboy boots.
The Rusty Spur isn’t mine, but I have a standing bar tab.
I head to the bar first, nod at the bartender, Moxy, who’s been here since Reagan was President. She’s pouring drinks fast, barely looking up.
“The usual,” I say, and she passes a shot of Bullitt over without a word.
I take it neat. No ice. Just heat.
If I were with Elena, Moxy would have poured us both Wild Turkey. She knows her clientele.
I look around, and it doesn’t take long for me to spot the most interesting woman in the joint.
She’s laughing.
She, Bree, and Kaz are squeezed in a high-top close to the bar.
Bree’s got her signature wild-child look. Leather jacket over a soft floral dress, boots scuffed from honest work. Kaz is next to her, one hand resting on the backrest of her barstool like it belongs there. Those two seriously need to fuck and get done with it.
I’ve gotten to know Kaz, but not too well, ‘cause he doesn’t let you in. He seems alright most of the time, but then again, sometimes he doesn’t. He fits in like someone who has been trained to fit in. You’d miss it if you weren’t looking.
I’ve been looking.
Even as he’s talking to Bree and Aria, his eyes track the whole place. He’s always scanning—always looking for exits.
I’d say witness protection, but he was born and raised here in Wildflower Canyon, so that won’t track. Undercover? A Fed?
He’s seen me, but pretends he hasn’t.
Aria laughs again, bringing me back to her.
Her hair’s loose, falling in glossy waves down her back. She’s in tight jeans, a pale pink button-down knotted at her waist, like she’s ready to go to a barn dance. I can see the skin at her waist. It looks silky and smooth.
She has on long dangling earrings. She’s done something to her eyes ‘cause they look sultry. She’s wearing lipstick—something soft and pink like her shirt.
She looks effortless and dangerous.
I have a feeling she’s the kind of woman who’d make you sorry when she walked away from you.
Well, Mav, there’s only one way to handle someone like her. Make sure she ain’t ever walkin’ away.
“Ladies.” I brush a kiss on Bree’s cheek, thump Kaz’s shoulder, and squeeze Aria’s before I take the high-backed bar chair next to her.
She’s wearing perfume. She smells like roses and sin.
“How’re you doin’, darlin’?” I hold Aria’s gaze. Don’t want her to think I’m talking to Bree.
Her eyes narrow slightly, but she doesn’t look away. I notice the flush in her cheeks. The shine on her lips. The way her boot taps to the rhythm of the music.
“Fancy seein’ you here, Mav.” Bree glares at Kaz, who gives her a cheeky ‘I didn’t do nothing’ look.
“Fancy that.” I set my glass of whiskey on the table.
“So, what’s the story?” Aria asks as she looks me up and down. “You were here and then you saw us?”
“Yeah,” I lie.
“Yeah!” She snorts.
Kaz slides his eyes over me, gives me a nod.
Bree lifts her glass. “We’re celebrating Aria. She ran the chute, jabbed every steer, and didn’t miss a beat.”
Aria laughs, loose and free. “I had help.”
“Earl is not help,” Bree counters.
“He is,” Aria says softly, her eyes gentle with affection.
“And we’re celebrating how Harold gave her an extension for three freakin’ months.” Kaz raises his glass.
We all toast Harold.
“I thought he’d ask me what I was smokin’ when I brought it up,” Aria admits, tracing the edge of her drink. It looks like bourbon, but I can’t be sure unless I get close enough to her lips.
Or you could pick up her glass and take a sniff.
Yeah, but what’s the fun in that?
The band begins to play a cover of Made For You by Jake Owen.
I get off my chair and hold my hand out to Aria. “Dance with me.”
She arches a brow, amusement flickering in her gaze.
“C’mon,” I cajole, wiggling my fingers. “Unless you’re scared.”
That gets her.
She slams back the last of her drink, sets it on the table, and places her hand in mine.
It’s warm. Strong.
We walk onto the dance floor, the low, smoky cry of a steel guitar sliding through the spaces between Jack Owen’s words.
She steps into my arms, stiff at first—but then she finds the rhythm, and leans in.
We move like we’ve done it before.
Her hand rests on my shoulder, and mine finds the small of her back, just above the waistband of those jeans. I stroke her bare skin.
I can feel the tension in her spine, the caution, the fire.
“You dance like a dream, darlin’.” I brush my lips close to her ear and feel a gentle shiver run through her. Seeing this cautious woman let go of her control for me is more erotic than seeing any other woman naked.
“You’re not who I thought you’d be.” She raises her head and looks at me. Alcohol has made her soft. I have no qualms about taking advantage of that.
“What did you expect?”
“A land-hungry rancher who bulldozes everything in his way.”
“I might still be that,” I warn her.
“Nah! Bulldozers don’t dance as well as you do.”
Halfway through the song, the dance shifts. Her chest brushes mine. Her thigh slips between mine.
There’s heat in every step.
She’s not being coy. She’s not trying to hide how she feels.
The lights overhead flicker across her face—cheekbones flushed, eyes dark with arousal.
We slip off the dance floor together and into the shadows outside The Rusty Spur.
The bass thumps, but in this moment, everything narrows down to her.
I kiss her.
It’s not soft. It’s not tentative.
It’s releasing days of tension. Heat. Possibility.
Her hand grips my shoulder hard.
Mine slides into her hair.
We kiss like we’re still dancing, moving against each other.
When I pull back, she blinks at me.
She’s surprised at how good that was.
So am I.
“You’re something else.” I brush a strand of hair from her cheek. “Strong. Smart. Gorgeous.”
Her gaze hardens slightly, like she doesn’t trust the compliment.
“Not unattractively—”
“I’m sorry for sayin’ that. I was attracted to you then and…I behaved like an asshole.”
“You did,” she agrees.
“I won’t do it again,” I promise.
She studies me in the dim lights spilling out from the bar, and after an interminable time, nods once. “Okay.”
She believes me!
I swoop down again.