Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WYATT
The Snowline is way busier than the last time we came here.
The parking lot is nearly full, and I drop the girls off at the entrance before I park the car in the farthest row from the building.
Nate stays with me, grumbling under his breath about women in short skirts being torture, but I ignore him, despite agreeing with his sentiment.
That dress Rachel is wearing is short, showing off her long, slender legs. I’m not a leg man. I’m more of a tit man, if I’m being honest with myself, but Rachel’s legs?
Damn.
Not that I should care. Not that I’m looking for anything else. I already hooked up with her once. I can’t do it again. She might think whatever we’re doing means something, and it doesn’t.
It absolutely doesn’t mean anything.
“I think they’re purposely trying to drive us out of our minds,” Nate declares as we walk across the parking lot toward the building. I can hear the music thumping from inside, the heavy bass vibrating through my body, and I glance over at my brother to see that he actually looks pissed.
“I don’t think that’s their intention at all—” I start, but Nate cuts me off.
“You haven’t put yourself out there in years, brother. Women nowadays? They’re diabolical. They don’t just have their friends to talk about how they can get back at a man. They’ve got millions of women all over the world giving them tips and tricks on social media,” Nate explains.
“Social media has been around for a long time,” I point out, and he makes a disgusted noise.
“Not like this. There are entire YouTube channels with millions of subscribers dedicated to this sort of shit.”
“And what sort of shit are you referring to?”
“How to get a man to notice you, how to make him green with jealousy, how to flirt with another guy to make the one you really want notice you.” Nate sounds like he’s spouting off magazine article headlines or whatever, and I almost want to laugh, but I don’t.
I’m not in the mood for a fight. Instead, I just let him ramble on, interjecting here and there.
“Have you, uh, watched these things? The YouTube videos?”
“Oh, you bet I have!” The words practically explode out of him. “I’m trying to figure out what makes a woman tick, you know?”
“Why don’t you just fixate on one woman in particular and get to know her?”
Nate groans as we draw closer to the double doors. The women are no longer waiting outside for us, so I can only assume they’re in the bar. “I’m not ready to settle down.”
“Who said you can’t date a woman for a steady period of time and not make it about settling down?” It’s a genuine question.
“Every woman around our age in this town who’s single is dying to settle down, including Paige. They’re not looking for a boyfriend; they’re looking for a future husband. And that sort of mindset? Freaks me the fuck out.”
“Why? What’s the big deal about falling in love with a woman and getting married?” I seriously don’t get why he feels like this.
“Look what happened to you,” he retorts.
Our conversation ends when we enter the bar, the music from the speakers almost deafening. Not that I’m necessarily paying any attention. Nate’s words are on repeat in my head.
“Look what happened to you.”
I assume he’s referring to the disaster my relationship with Cheryl was.
He was young when it went down—still in high school when she left town—but I guess he was old enough to see how she messed with my head and my heart.
How I’ve never really gotten over it either.
Not that I’m still in love with Cheryl—it’s more that I don’t want to deal with a relationship at all.
They’re too much, too messy, too . . . dangerous.
Dangerous to my emotions, and Dottie’s too.
She doesn’t need to get attached to a woman only for said woman to ditch us.
Yeah, I’m bitter. I can admit it. Having my guard up is safer.
Pulling myself out of my negative thoughts, I glance around the room, shocked by how crowded it is here tonight. There are people clustered everywhere. “It’s busy,” I practically scream at Nate.
“They have drink specials this night every week to drum up business,” Nate yells back.
“Well, it’s working.”
We push through the crowd, and I spot plenty of familiar faces. Mostly people we’ve grown up with. Suzi is here with Kayla, and Nate immediately approaches them, overly friendly as he makes conversation.
I ditch them all, winding my way through the clusters of people, spotting Paige’s barely covered ass in that tiny denim skirt first, Rachel right next to her.
They’re standing at the counter, trying to get the bartender’s attention, and I approach, looming just behind them while making eye contact with the bartender.
He works his way over to us and offers me a greeting because I graduated from high school with him. Both women glance over their shoulders, Paige’s disappointment in seeing me glaringly obvious.
“You made that happen.” Her tone is morose.
“No thank-you for helping?” I lift my brows.
“I was hoping we could manage to get him to come over to us without assistance.”
“She wanted to stand on her own two feet,” Rachel adds.
I’m starting to think Nate is onto something, watching YouTube videos and trying to figure out why women do the things that they do, because what they’re saying right now makes zero sense.
“What’ll I get you?” Dave, the bartender, asks them.
“An Aperol spritz, please,” Rachel requests.
“Same,” Paige says.
I’ve never heard of that drink in my life.
“I’ll take a beer. Whatever’s on tap, I’m not picky,” I tell Dave. “And start a tab for me, will ya?”
“Sure thing.” Dave slaps the counter and turns away from us to start making the drinks.
Rachel turns to face me, the crowded bar causing her body to brush against mine. I feel those curves right down to my gut, making my dick stir, and I mentally tell it to calm down. “No way will you be paying for my drinks tonight. I still owe you.”
“I’ve got it,” I say easily. “And you don’t owe me anything.”
“Wyatt.” Her tone is vaguely whiny, reminding me of Dottie, which is kind of weird. I shove the thought out of my brain.
“Rachel.” I smirk at her, feeling like a pain in the ass, but I don’t care. I take her in for a second, the way her hair is slicked back, showing off her expressive face. The big, thin gold hoops dangling from her ears. She’s beautiful.
It hits me like a ton of bricks: I’m still attracted to this woman, despite trying to tell myself I need to move on. I can’t touch her again. To try to make something happen between us would be . . . madness. A potential disaster.
“You’re infuriating,” she tells me before she whips around, facing the counter with her back to me.
Not taking offense to what she said, I remain quiet, fixating on the straps of her dress and how they tie at the shoulders.
Cute little bows that look like they’d come undone with a gentle tug of my fingers.
My imagination shifts into overdrive, all sorts of scenarios running through my mind.
Most of them feature Rachel in a seminaked state like the last time I was with her. Buried deep inside her.
The reminder makes me start to sweat.
Deciding to play with fire, I wedge myself in between where she’s standing and the guy to her left, putting my back to him so I’m fully tuned into Rachel. She glances over at me, doing a double take when I just stand there smiling at her, and she frowns. “What are you doing?”
“I have a question.” Her brows draw together, but she says nothing else, so I go on. “Why am I infuriating?”
She blinks at me, like I surprised her by asking. “Well . . . you have this commanding way about you. You tend to take over everything.”
“Just because I won’t let you pay? I’m trying to be a gentleman.” I’ve always wanted to pay for a woman’s dinner, her drinks, whatever. It’s the way I was raised. Not that I’ve been on many dates over the years where I would get to take care of the check.
“And I’m trying to find some independence.” She flashes me a sugary-sweet smile. “I appreciate you wanting to pay for my drinks, but I’ve got this.”
“No, I’m afraid you don’t.” I shake my head.
That sweet smile falters and is gone in an instant. “Come on, Wyatt. You really don’t have to do this.”
“See, that’s the thing you don’t seem to understand.
I know I don’t have to pay for your drinks, but my mama raised me right.
” I move in closer to her, our bodies gently colliding, and I can tell by the flicker in her gaze that she feels it.
The electricity, the zing that seems to spark between us every time we’re close.
I like that she’s feisty. That she talks back but isn’t rude about it.
I also admire her for wanting to do something on her own, versus falling into her rich-girl habits and letting someone else take care of her. “So give in and let me do it.”
Rachel tips her head back, her gaze wary. Unsure. She visibly swallows, and I note the doubt I can feel radiating from her in subtle waves. I get it. I’m full of doubt too. Like, what the hell am I doing? Am I flirting with her? Apparently so. “You’re rather . . . straightforward, aren’t you?”
I tip my head to the side. “That’s one way to describe me.”
A tiny wrinkle appears between her brows, and I’m tempted to smooth it out with my fingers, but I keep my hands to myself. “You’re not a . . . love bomber, are you?”
Now I’m frowning. “What the hell is that?”
Her shoulders relax a bit. “The fact that you don’t know the definition of love bombing is answer enough.”
“Someone really did a number on you, huh.” It’s not a question. I can just tell. Maybe it’s because someone did a number on me too.
“I could say the same for you,” she murmurs, her voice so low I have to dip my head to hear her over the constant noise in this place.
This brings me closer to her, and I can smell her shampoo, her lotion, her perfume, whatever it is she’s wearing, and it’s intoxicating. I brace my hand on the bar counter, and she takes a tiny step, shifting into my space. “You going to give in and let me buy you your drinks?”
“Only because you want to,” she answers, her voice prim, though her eyes sparkle with mischief. “You know, you’re not as grumpy as you like to pretend you are.”
“Oh, I’m grumpy as fuck when I want to be,” I say, making her laugh. “I only let down my guard for a few people.”
“Are you saying I’m one of those people, Captain McKinney?” Her eyes are wide with shock, and I have to admit . . .
I’m surprised too.
Bending my head, my mouth is right at her ear when I murmur, “Maybe.”