Curvy Girl and the Obsessed Cowboy (Blackwater Falls: Cowboys #4)

Chapter 1 - Harper

The whiskey burns, but not nearly enough.

I stare at the amber liquid in my glass, watching the ice cubes slowly melt and dilute what little courage I managed to swallow.

One drink. I've been nursing this single goddamn drink for the past forty minutes, and I'm still stone-cold sober.

Still feeling everything. Still seeing Derek's face when I walked in on him.

Still hearing my best friend—ex-best friend—moaning his name.

The Blackwater Falls Saloon is exactly what I expected from a small Montana town. Dark wood everywhere, neon beer signs casting colored shadows across scarred tables, and a jukebox in the corner playing something twangy that I don't recognize.

The place smells like stale beer, fried food, and too many years of cigarette smoke that no amount of cleaning will ever eliminate. It's perfect. Nobody here knows me. Nobody here gives a shit about the runaway bride who became the town's favorite scandal back in Denver.

My phone buzzes in my purse for what has to be the hundredth time today.

I don't even look. I know who it is. Derek.

My mother. Derek's mother. Maybe even Jessica, if that skinny bitch has the audacity to call me after I caught her fucking my fiancé in our bed.

*Our bed.* The one we picked out together at that overpriced furniture store where Derek insisted we needed Egyptian cotton sheets.

I take another sip, bigger this time, and force myself to swallow past the lump in my throat.

I will not cry. Not here. Not anywhere. I've done enough crying in the past twenty-four hours to last me a lifetime.

My eyes are already puffy, my nose red despite the makeup I tried to cover it with.

I look like exactly what I am: a woman who just had her entire life implode.

The music shifts to something with a faster beat, and I notice movement on the small dance floor near the jukebox.

A group of people, laughing and spinning, obviously regulars who know each other well.

And right in the center of them is a man who immediately catches my attention, though I wish to God he didn't.

Tall. That's the first thing I notice. Probably around six feet, with broad shoulders stretching a worn flannel shirt that looks soft from a thousand washes.

Dark hair that's just long enough to be tousled, like he's been running his hands through it all day.

And a smile. Jesus Christ, that smile. The kind that probably gets him anything he wants, from free drinks to phone numbers scrawled on napkins.

He's dancing with two women at once, an arm around each of their waists, spinning them in turns that make their hair fly and their laughter ring out above the music.

They're eating it up, both of them pressing close, touching his chest, his arms, anywhere they can reach. And he's loving every second of it.

I clock him immediately.

*That type.*

The type who thinks he's God's gift to women.

The type who believes his smile is currency and his attention is a prize to be won.

The type who probably has a different girl in his bed every weekend and never calls them back.

The type who thinks women owe him something just for existing in his presence.

Fuck him. And fuck all men like him.

Even if he is hot. Even if that smile does something stupid to my pussy that I refuse to acknowledge. Even if he moves like he knows exactly what he's doing with his body, confident and loose and completely at ease.

Especially because of all that.

I tear my gaze away and focus on my drink again.

The last thing I need is to notice any man, let alone one who's clearly a fuckboy.

I came here to forget, to disappear, to start over in the town where my dad grew up.

This was supposed to be safe. Anonymous.

A place where I could lick my wounds in peace and figure out what the hell I'm going to do with the rest of my life now that the future I planned is gone.

My phone buzzes again. And again. I pull it out just long enough to hit the power button and watch the screen go dark. There. Better.

"You look like you need another one of those."

The voice comes from my left, a woman about my age with kind eyes and a bartender's apron. She gestures to my nearly empty glass with a sympathetic smile.

"I'm good," I say, even though I'm not. Even though I want to order the whole bottle and forget my own name.

She doesn't push, just nods and moves on to the next customer. I appreciate that. The last thing I can handle right now is pity or questions or someone trying to "help."

The song changes again, something slower this time, and I risk another glance at the dance floor.

The man has switched to just one woman now, pulling her close as they sway.

She's gorgeous, of course. Long blonde hair, perfect figure, the kind of woman who probably never had to wonder if her fiancé was satisfied.

Unlike me.

I look down at myself. My curves that have always been "generous." My height that tops out at five-foot-two on a good day. My dimples that Derek used to say were cute but maybe he was lying about that too. Maybe he always preferred women like Jessica. Tall. Thin. Perfect.

I drain the rest of my whiskey in one burning gulp and slam the glass down harder than I mean to.

The bartender glances over, and I shake my head before she can ask.

I should go. Back to the cheap motel room I rented for the week while I figure out my next move.

Back to staring at the ceiling and wondering how I missed all the signs.

But I don't move. Because going back to that room means being alone with my thoughts, and I'm not ready for that yet. At least here there's noise. Distraction. Other people's happiness to envy instead of my own misery to drown in.

The player spins his partner again, dipping her low enough to make her squeal with delight.

He laughs, and even from here I can see how it lights up his whole face.

He's probably never had his heart broken in his life.

Probably never trusted someone enough to even risk it.

Just bounces from woman to woman, keeping everything light and easy and consequence-free.

Part of me hates him for it. And part of me, the part I absolutely refuse to acknowledge, wonders what that must be like. To live without the weight of expectations. To take what you want and move on before it can hurt you.

I'm not that person. I believe in commitment. In loyalty. In love, even if love just proved it doesn't believe in me.

*Believed.* Past tense.

Because I'm done. Done with love, done with trust, done with all of it. From now on, I'm looking out for myself. No more giving my heart away to men who don't deserve it. No more building my life around someone else's promises.

The dance floor is starting to clear as the slower song ends. The player's partner kisses his cheek and disappears toward the bathroom, leaving him standing there alone. He runs a hand through his hair, that confident smile still playing at his lips as he surveys the room.

And then his eyes land on me.

Shit.

I look away immediately, focusing on my empty glass like it's the most fascinating thing I've ever seen. Maybe he'll think I wasn't staring. Maybe he'll move on to his next conquest and leave me alone.

But I can feel him looking. I can sense the weight of his attention. My face heats, and I curse my fair skin that shows every blush, every emotion I'd rather keep hidden.

The sounds around me continue. Laughter, conversations, the clink of glasses, but they all seem to fade as I hear footsteps approaching. Heavy boots on the wooden floor, coming closer. Coming toward me.

*Please don't. Please just go away.*

But the universe has never been particularly kind to me, so of course he doesn't.

"Hey there."

The voice is low, warm, with just a hint of gravel that shouldn't be attractive but somehow is. I keep my eyes on my glass, willing him to take the hint.

He doesn't.

Instead, he leans against the bar beside me, close enough that I can smell him: something woodsy and clean with a hint of whiskey. Close enough that I can see the flannel is even softer than it looked from across the room, worn at the elbows and frayed at the cuffs.

"I haven't seen you around before," he continues, and there's genuine curiosity in his tone rather than the sleazy pickup line I expected. "You new in town?"

I finally look up, meeting his eyes for the first time, and—

Oh.

They're dark. Deep brown, almost black in the dim light of the bar, with little flecks of amber that catch the neon glow from the beer signs.

Up close, he's even more attractive than I thought.

Square jaw with just enough stubble to be rugged without being unkempt.

Lips that curve naturally into a smile even when he's not trying.

And those shoulders. Jesus. Broad enough that he blocks out half the bar just by standing there.

I hate that I notice all of this. Hate that my body responds even as my mind screams warnings. He's waiting for an answer, that easy smile still in place, completely confident that I'll respond. Because women always respond to men like him, don't they?

Well. Not this woman. Not tonight.

I open my mouth to tell him exactly where he can shove his interest, but before I can, he speaks again.

"You're cute."

I blink. Then I actually laugh, sharp and bitter. "Yeah, right."

His eyebrows lift, and that easy smile falters for just a second. "I'm serious."

"Sure you are." I shake my head, looking back at my empty glass. "Look, I'm not interested in whatever game you're playing, so you can move on to someone else. There's a whole bar full of women who'd love your attention."

"I'm not playing a game." He shifts, leaning in slightly, and I catch another whiff of that woodsy scent. "And I said you're cute because you are. Those dimples? Gorgeous."