8. Winnie
CHAPTER EIGHT
winnie
“Oh, no. You’re not working tonight.”
I almost spill the drink in my hand.
“What?” I frown. “I need the money.”
“Oh you’re still gettin’ paid for the shift,” Honey says, smirking. “But you’ve been busting your butt all week. Tonight? You get to relax a little. Enjoy the bar. Charming’s helping out.”
I glance over my shoulder just as he pops up behind the bar, all easy charm and a grin that should probably be illegal. “What’ll it be?”
“Okay… then I’ll take a lemon seltzer,” I say, smiling.
He nods and grabs it while I slide onto the other side of the bar, next to Sawyer.
She’s already halfway through her tequila sunrise.
She scans the room like a predator, looking for tonight’s entertainment.
Honey is behind the bar, backless dress, dark-plum lip gloss perfect for the lighting, laughing with Charming like nothing else exists.
I look around, just in case fate decides to send in a cute stranger that could make me laugh that way—someone with really good jokes and zero emotional baggage.
Or, you know… I could check my dating app and scroll through a lineup of men holding fish.
“I saw that,” Sawyer says, nudging me. “Staring at the door like you’re expecting someone to walk in.”
“It’s always interesting to see who walks in here.”
Sawyer leans in, eyes sparkling like she’s about to start something. “Okay, be honest. Who are you scoping out?” She gasps and smacks my arm. “Oh my god—are you looking for a hot cowboy?”
Honey snorts, scooping up ice and dumping it into a shaker. “Sweetheart, this bar is ninety percent hot cowboys and ten percent women looking for a hot cowboy. Odds are in your favor.”
Sawyer sits up straighter, smoothing her hair as she looks in the reflective mirror that’s on the back of her phone case. “Now, obviously, he’s got his problems, but my brother Knox happens to be single.”
Honey rolls her eyes. “Here we go.”
Sawyer continues. “He had a rough year. Was seeing a girl named Hazel for a while, but now he’s just focused on our daddy's land. He’s really turned his life around. The Stetson’s are starting to trust him again after he almost got us all killed, but hey, that’s a story for another day.”
I laugh, taking a sip of my drink.
Honey smiles and jerks her chin toward the pool tables. “I mean you do have a room full of bull riders over there. All pretty cute. Which one’s your poison?”
Sawyer grins. “Choose wisely. You know they come with attitude and emotional damage. But also really great asses.”
“That’s true. I’d know because I am one.” Charming winks, replacing my drink with a new one.
Charming is almost too attractive for real life, and he knows it. Those dimples are Honey's problem. She just doesn’t know that yet.
I sneak a glance over my shoulder like I’m being subtle about it. I am not being subtle about it.
Knox is the first one I spot—tall, blond, big easy smile. The kind of guy who probably says something dumb and sweet at the same time and gets away with it. Definitely funny. Definitely dangerous in that you’d accidentally tell him your life story kind of way.
I spot Trouble next. Already tried that. And taken.
Then there’s Rogue.
I pause.
Okay, yes. He’s attractive. Unfortunately. I watch him throw a dart that sails directly over the head of a man he knows, and he just grins like attempted manslaughter is part of his personality.
Yeah. No. I enjoy being alive.
But dating one of Trouble’s brothers? Absolutely not. Hard pass. I could never. There are lines in life you just do not cross, and romantic involvement with your ex’s brother feels like one of them.
There are a few other bull riders mixed in, all hats and boots and belt buckles, but none of them really stick. Nice to look at, sure. Just… not for me.
And suddenly I have the overwhelming urge to drown myself in seltzer for even thinking that if Danger were back there, he’d automatically win best looking man in the room. In this bar.
Cool. Great. Love that for me.
Too bad he falls under the very strict category of men I am absolutely not allowed to find attractive.
But it doesn’t help that my brain refuses to let go of the mental image of when I walked in on Danger.
Refuses.
The tight set of his jaw. The way his tan skin still managed to flush. The look on his face like he forgets how to breathe when he’s focused on something.
Really useful information for me to have about my ex’s older brother.
Nope. Not thinking about it. Not replaying it now.
I need a cold shower… and possibly holy water.
“I’ll let ya know what I’m thinking after a few more of these,” I say, holding up my drink.
Honey nudges Charming. “Just noticed you’re missin’ a brother out there. Didn’t force Danger out tonight?”
“Nah, I think even mama was even tryin’ to get him to have some fun tonight.”
Sawyer sips. “Mhm. Man would rather spend quality time with a two-ton bull than with actual humans.”
Honey has already turned her attention back to serving someone else, flashing a smile over her shoulder.
“Bathroom break,” I announce, scooting off my stool. The room is spinning just slightly—a pleasant kind of unsteady, the kind that makes you feel untouchable.
I start to weave through the crowd I didn’t realize got so big, and that's when I run straight into her.
It’s a textbook set-up—just like a teen movie cliche—but this is real life and the mean girl who tortured me growing up is standing six inches from my face.
Rylee Whitmore.
The same perfect beach-blonde, the same Super Bowl commercial teeth, the same unfair rack. Her left boob isn’t bigger than the other like mine, and now she’s stuffed into a dress that I’m sure costs more than anything I own.
She used to babysit me when I was little. My parents loved her.
They never saw the version that showed up after their taillights disappeared down the driveway.
The one who spent the night talking on the phone instead of watching me.
The one who sighed dramatically whenever I walked into a room.
The one who told me no boy would ever like a girl who talked as much as I did.
The one who laughed when I cried and called me a baby for missing my parents.
The one who made me feel like taking up space was something I should apologize for.
Looking at her now, I have the sudden, irrational urge to ask if she's still charging by the hour to torture children.
“Apron girl?” Rylee lifts her cup and nearly sloshes cranberry-vodka on her nude heels. “Wow… didn’t think your parents would ever let you out the flour bin.”
Did I mention she's the one who started calling me apron girl? I liked helping my parents in the kitchen when I was younger. Apparently that wasn’t cool.
She shouted it across the elementary school parking lot one afternoon when my parents asked her to walk me home.
A week later, half my class was calling me the same thing.
Funny how fast a nickname really sticks when the prettiest girl in town starts it.
Her friends—three of them, all in matching black dresses—giggle in unison. Apparently Ryllee wasn't gone long enough to lose her fan club. One of them—the shortest—checks her phone and looks me up and down, like she’s confirming some embarrassing rumor.
“It’s Winnie, actually,” I say. My voice sounds like a mouse with all the noise in here.
Rylee leans in, all smiles. “Cute apron. Still rocking it, huh?”
I look down and realize I forgot to take it off. This is my hell.
“Are we done here?”
She narrows her eyes. Even her friends freeze—one mid-giggle, the other with a straw in her mouth.
“Oh my god, Rylee, does this girl know you’re, like, famous?” one says.
“Maybe she doesn’t know who you are?” The third, with the straw, adds.
Rylee tilts her head, keeps her eyes locked on mine. “Oh, she knows. Everyone in this town does.”
Her gaze drifts—the worn romper I’ve had for years, the drink stain on my apron, the shoes that used to be white—before sliding back to my face.
“But girls like her?” A faint smile. Almost pitying. “They don’t really register. Didn’t back then. Don’t now.” She shrugs. “I guess maybe there’s something poetic about being… forgettable. Slipping through life without anyone noticing when you’re gone.”
I’ve been told worse things. That’s not what hurts. What hurts is hearing her say something I’ve always been terrified was true.
Their laughter rings in my ears, tangling with the frantic thoughts in my head until I'm convinced the whole bar is laughing at me too. If I cry here, in this bar, I’ll never be able to set foot inside again. I’ll be a cautionary tale for the next generation of women they call apron girl.
One of her friends—the quieter one—shrugs. “Well, there’s enough cowboys in here for all of us. We don’t need to get in each other’s way. Let’s just enjoy the night.”
Rylee cocks her head and looks at me. “Her with a cowboy? Last I heard, she wanted a Stetson and he didn’t want her back.”
She says it like she’s genuinely confused by my existence.
I’m not confused by hers though. I recognize this. I know exactly why she does it. She needs it—to feel powerful. And for a second, I almost let her have it—until I remember I don’t have to put up with that. I’m not invisible. And I don’t have to swallow my words anymore.
I start to speak, but their faces change. All of them look surprised. Confused? Rylee goes pale. And then, right behind me, a deep voice.
“Fuck off, Rylee.”
It’s not a shout, but it might as well be—every word is cold. I don’t have to look. I know the voice.
Danger.
He’s so close I can feel him hover behind me, smell the rainforest and cedar scent of his cologne.
Rylee blinks. “Excuse me?”
“You're not doing this here.”
“Danger, I was just?—”
“Don’t.” His voice drops. Not louder—lower somehow. “Whatever game you think you’re playin’, you can play it somewhere else.”
Rylee lets out a sharp breath, then forces a high-pitched laugh. “Oh my God, I need another drink. I cannot deal with this tonight.”
Danger still doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t lean forward. Doesn’t move at all.
Which somehow makes it so much worse.
“I don’t care what you do,” he says flatly. “But this isn’t how you talk to people. And it sure as hell isn’t how you talk to her.”
The word lands like a door slamming shut.
Rylee’s smile vanishes. Just… gone.
Her friends glance at each other. Quick, uncomfortable looks—the kind people share when they realize they picked the wrong side of something. One of them suddenly finds the floor fascinating. The other reaches for her arm.
“Ry, let’s just—go over there?”
Rylee hears it. Sees it—the shift.
“He’s just upset right now,” she says quickly, waving a hand like she can smooth this over. “He’ll come around sooner or later.”
Danger shifts closer to me, his arm brushing mine, his eyes never leaving hers.
No one agrees.
Her friends are already steering her away, their grips more firm than friendly. She goes, but her steps aren’t nearly as confident as when I first saw her.
And she keeps looking back.
Not at him.
At me.
Danger stares them down until the last pair of heels is out of range. He stands there for a second more, just in case.
When he finally looks at me, it’s as if the rest of the room ceases to exist. “You good?”
Somehow his question makes my throat tighten.
Why did he just do that? Why did he stand up for me?
I nod once. “I just—I need to help with the bar.”
I turn before he can say anything else.
The bar's busier than Honey expected. Empty glasses are everywhere. I grab two, then three, stack them against my chest. I don’t look at him, but I can feel him behind me.
“I told you this bar wasn’t a good place for you. You can’t let people like that get to you.”
I snort before I can stop myself. “Easy for you to say. She doesn’t want to make your life miserable.”
He huffs a laugh. “You wanna bet?”
“It’s different for me, okay? People respect you.
They don’t respect me. She didn’t come back here for the stale beer.
” I swallow. “Once someone like Rylee decides you're the joke…
everyone else joins in because it makes them feel better about themselves.
They won't quit until I give them the reaction they're looking for.” My voice catches. “I need this job, Danger.”
He studies me for a second, his blueish gray eyes still stormy from the Rylee mess.
Then, like it’s the most obvious solution in the world, he says, “Then tell them you’re with me.”
I almost drop the stack of glasses in my hands. “With you how?”
“With me, with me,” he says, reaching out and steadying the wobbling tower before it tips. His fingers brush mine. Warm and solid. Way too comforting.
A nervous laugh slips out. “That’s hilarious.”
“I’m not joking.”
I blink up at him. He isn’t. Not even a little.
I shake my head. “They won’t believe that. And even if they did—what would people think? You dating your brother’s ex-girlfriend?”
One shoulder lifts in a lazy shrug. “You think my reputation can get any worse than it already is?”
…An annoyingly fair point.
“You want respect? The Stetson name comes with that,” he adds. “People think twice before they mess with us. If they believe you're with me… they'll think twice about messing with you, too.”
“What would your brothers think?”
“I can deal with them.”
“No,” I say too quickly. “I can’t do that. I won’t. Why would you even want to do that?”
Something shifts in his expression. Less edge. More truth.
“You’d be doing me a favor.”
“How?”
“It gets Rylee off my back.” His eyes flick toward the door, then back to me. Focused. Protective. “I don’t know why she’s in town, but I don’t trust it. And I need her to stay away from me. Away from Fisher.”
The way he says his son’s name, it pulls at something deep in my chest.
“And you think I’d be the right person for that job?”
His gaze drifts over my face like he’s noticing things he hasn’t let himself see before.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”
“She’s basically a model. An actress.”
He shakes his head once, slow.
“She’s stunning—gorgeous,” I add, softly.
“And what do you think you are?” he asks.
I gesture to myself. “Not that.”
He shakes his head again like I’m the one who doesn't make sense. “You really don't see it, do you?”
I frown. “See what?”
“That you don't come in second to anybody.”
The words don’t come out smooth. They come out honest, like he didn’t plan on saying them at all.
It almost knocks me off my feet.
“We can do this till she’s gone,” he says. “Ain’t gotta be fancy. Ain’t gotta be real. You just gotta act like you don’t hate bein’ near me.”
He dips his head just a fraction, voice dropping softer—rougher. “Let ’em think you’re mine.”
Mine.
One word. Simple. Possessive. A lie.
And coming from him? Feels like the word has a whole new meaning.