Chapter 19
nineteen
Trouble
There are three things you can always count on at the Summer Barn Dance: someone’s aunt will start a line dance she has no rhythm, no business, and no shame leading; a punch will be thrown by the end of the night—usually over bags or a woman named Sherry; and at least one Stetson brother will do or say something so stupid, it’ll live forever in the family group chat.
Right now, Charming's leading the race.
He takes a lazy sip of his beer, eyes tracking the dance floor like he's scouting a draft pick. “Be honest—if love at first sight is real, how many women in this barn just fell for me?”
Knox nearly chokes on his drink. “Pretty sure that last one asked if your belt buckle was compensating for something.”
Charming waves him off. “Doesn’t count. Patsy Jean’s had it out for me since I beat her at karaoke night last fall. Wonderwall changed everything.”
I lean back against the barn wall, watching as couples spin and stomp through another round of line dancing while overhead lights swing lazily from rafters.
Music blasts from the DJ’s corner. Laughter rolls through the open barn doors, and the scent of hay, spilled beer, and something deep-fried is what makes it all come together.
And me?
Well, I’m standing here trying not to look at her.
Damn near impossible. She's all glowing and confident. That dress she’s wearin’ outlines every perfect hill and valley of hers. I can see every glance she snags from under every wide-brimmed hat in here.
"Trouble," Charming claps me on the back, "looks like we're running dry. Let's go saddle up another round."
"Guess that means the next round's on me,” I say as we stride toward the bar.
"Well looky there, Sawyer's here," Charming says in a way that already pisses me off. "I should probably go over and make sure she feels welcome."
“Make sure she feels welcome,” I repeat, irritation edging every word. “Why you gotta do all that?”
He shrugs, way too pleased with himself. “Why not?”
“In case your brain’s off balance from bull-riding—she’s Knox’s sister, remember.”
“Relax,” he says, low and smooth, like he’s the fucking voice of reason. “I know who she is.”
His gaze pins mine, eyes sharp. “But I think you’re the one who needs reminding. You’re showing your cards, brother. I knew you were into her. And don’t even try to lie about it.”
I say nothing. Because he’s not wrong—and he knows it.
“That extra work you got us doing on Knox’s property lately? The early-morning shit we’re takin’ on? That’s not for him. It’s for her.” He leans in, lowering his voice. “And the fact that we’re keeping it all from Knox? Yeah… tells me everything.”
Then, with that smug, damn grin, he steps back—victory stamped all over him.
“Another round for the group,” Charming tells the bartender. “And this one’s on Trouble. He owes me. Oh—and give yourself a big tip, sweetheart,” he adds with a wink.
“Sure thing, Charming,” she says, flashing him a smile that makes me want to punch him in the damn ribs.
I lean back on the barstool, jaw tight. “Thanks for that.”
He just raises his glass. “Anytime.”
I take a swig of my whiskey, the ice clinks against my teeth as I watch Charming head back to our group, carrying a few bottles in his hands over with him. With a resigned sigh, I pull out my wallet and drop my card on the counter for the bartender.
"Trouble," a voice carries from behind me, and I don't need to turn around to know who's there.
"What exactly were you doing bright and early this morning?" Sawyer asks, and I can tell she’s probably got one hand resting on that hip of hers.
The corners of my mouth fight a grin. “You tryin’ to dig up dirt on me, Sawyer?”
A breeze of wildflowers and fire swirls around me as she steps closer, her presence brushing against mine like static. Her icy eyes find mine as she leans against the bar in front of me.
"Just answer the question," she says, steady. But there’s a spark there—one I’m starting to get addicted to.
I shift my weight, cocking an eyebrow as my gaze drops just for a second.
"That a new dress? Or is that somethin’ you wear to interrogate all your suspects?"
"Let me guess, you hate it?" Her head tilts, testing me.
"Absolutely," I say, slow and easy, lifting my drink to my lips. "Hate it on you."
Her jaw drops, already gearing up to snap back—but I’m not done.
My gaze drops again, taking in the way that dress fits her just right. It’s unfair, the kind of unfair that makes good men reckless and bad men even worse. But it's not the dress itself that I don’t like—it's the effect it has on me, on every man here.
"Figures," she mutters, a little too quiet. Then, sharper, "You've got some nerve. What exactly don’t you like about this dress?"
I drift in, stopping just at the edge of her ear, my voice lowering into something meant to hook and hold her.
"It’s not the dress I’ve got a problem with, darlin’." She blinks. Just once. And that’s all I need. "A dress like that? It was made to be taken off you. Should already be on the floor."
She smirks, tiltin’ her head. “Silly boy. Don’t you know that’s the point? A woman buys a dress like this so a man will wanna take it off her.”
I huff out a laugh. “Can’t argue with that.”
Her eyes narrow just a touch. “And you can talk about stripping me outta this dress, but you can’t be honest with me? You claim to be this truthful man. That people know exactly what they get with you, but you won't be upfront with me."
"Tell me," I say, my drawl slow and deliberate. "What am I not being upfront about?"
Her lips part like she’s about to say something, but she doesn’t. Just holds my gaze, steady and unflinching, like she’s daring me to make the first move.
And fuck, I want to.
Sawyer stands there, all put together and fire, fierce as hell with that chin tilted up like she owns every inch of this town. I can’t want her—and that’s a fucking problem.
There’s this pull between us, magnetic, dangerous, and damn near impossible to ignore.
I know she feels it too. It's in the way her breath hitches when I look at her too long. The way I catch her noticing me from across the room. And in the way her body leans in—just enough to make me wonder if she’ll close the space between us—before she catches herself and steps back.
And the worst part?
We’re both holding a full house, bluffing like hell, waiting to see who folds first.
God help me if it’s me.
"You play that tough cowboy act well, like you don't have feelings, claim you're too good for a relationship. But deep down? I think you want one. Maybe it even scares you."
A wolfish grin tugs at my lips, even as my heart kicks against its cage. She's close enough that I can count the faint freckles on her face. "Sounds like you got me all figured out, city girl."
There's a slight quirk to her eyebrow that tells me she's not entirely sure if she’s right or not. A lock of blonde hair falls across her face, and it takes everything in me not to reach out and tuck it behind her ear.
"Maybe I do," she says, searching my face for any signs of weakness.
I lean back, giving myself the illusion of space, though the heat of her presence is almost too much. We're playing a dangerous game, Sawyer and I, and it's getting harder every damn day to remember the rules.
"Maybe you do," I repeat, taking a slow sip, the burn down my throat not enough to distract from the heat of her scrutiny.
“I’m getting the feeling you like me more than you let on,” she says, leaning in close, her breath brushing the edge of my jaw.
I set my glass down slow, my fingers still wrapped tight around it—not because I need another sip, but because if I let go, they’ll end up on her. Gripping her waist. Tilting her chin. Pulling her in and lifting her on this damn bar like I’ve imagined too many times.
Instead, I hold back.
“Like I said,” I say, rough and quiet.My voice doesn't shake even though everything else inside me does. “Knox is my best friend. And out here, our brotherhood means something. So even if that was true, I can’t go there.”
The words come out gritty, like they’ve been hauled through miles of dirt and dust on the ranch. I straighten up, jaw tight, and pull my shit together the best that I can as I continue.
“And I’ll die on that hill. Don’t push this, Sawyer.”
“Okay, cowboy," she smiles. It’s almost evil. "If that's the game we're playing, then I'll play."
She turns and disappears into the crowd—slow, confident, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
And all I can think is… I’m about to lose whatever game she’s playing before it even starts.
Because damn it, every part of me wants to follow her.
And knowing Sawyer?
She’s already three steps ahead.