41. Bad Boy Cowboy
41
BAD BOY COWBOY
WYATT
“ W ell, would you look at that? Pocket kings.” Dakota fans her cards on the outdoor patio table that Colt Cutler himself carved out of an old oak tree. “Unless any of you fools have pocket aces, these bad boys are gonna take the winnings.”
“The Gambler” by Kenny Rogers plays over the sunset hum of the cicadas as we sit around the Cutler’s wraparound porch. It’s a balmy Saturday night, so we’re all playing poker like old times, our laughter mingling with the soft clink of chips.
She’s bouncing Vi on her knee, ripping plastic chips out of my girl’s hands as she tries to stick them in her mouth so she doesn’t choke. My girl only wants to be with her now, which isn’t all that surprising. They’re attached at the hip.
Alanna tosses out her cards with a huff and takes a hefty swig of her ranch water because she went on a ten-minute rant about how she can’t do the sugar in a margarita. “Eight-two off-suit.”
“Brutal.” Dakota whistles, patting Alanna’s shoulder in a solid effort gesture. “That’s one of the worst hands you can get.”
Alanna shoots her a glare. “Thanks for the commentary, babe.”
Dakota smiles.
Vi laughs in her arms.
It’s perfect.
“Ace-high,” Mr. Cutler says, chewing on the tip of his unlit cigar.
Willie tosses his cards on the table with a gruff grumble. “Seven-two off-suit.”
“Hah!” Alanna shouts. “At least I beat Sasquatch.”
He sips his whiskey neat. “Don’t get used to it, Barbie.”
My mom begrudgingly lifts her navy Guardians cap, revealing the short gray strands that she brushes out of her face. “Damn it all. Three of a kind.”
Mama flicks her blonde braid over one shoulder and downs the last of her margarita, the glass catching the sunlight as she finishes her drink. “I’ve only got a two pair.”
Dakota swings her beautiful brown eyes to me, propping up a brow while popping a kiss on Vienna’s cheek. “Well, Patty Daddy? Let’s hear it, ’cause unless you’re hiding pocket aces, there’s no chance in hell you’re beating me.”
Fuck.
Hearing her call me Daddy makes me want to drag her to the nearest bedroom. One wink from this woman is enough to get me half-hard.
It’s ridiculous.
She stares at me with a challenge set in her smile, but what she doesn’t know is I’ve never minded losing if she’s the one doing the winning.
I flip over my pocket aces with a grin. “Three-eight off-suit.”
Those dimples pop, and I’ll lose to her every time if it means seeing that grin.
“Look at that,” Dakota drawls, scooping up her chips. “Guess I win that round. Again. Who wants another margarita? I spent over an hour picking those prickly pears out in the fields for the homemade syrup, and the tiny thorns got all up in my gloves, so please tell me y’all want more.”
Everyone at the table slumps up a sad, defeated hand because we’re all losing. This is the fifth round she’s won, or at least she thinks.
“Dammit, Colt,” my mom playfully chastises. “Did you have to teach your daughter every trick in the book? You raised a poker prodigy.”
Colt smiles proudly at his daughter, as he should. She’s won almost every round besides this one. “Course I did. She’s my girl, and my girl’s got to know how to beat ’em all. Oh, and would you make my margarita a ranch water, darlin’?” he grunts, the cigar wobbling from his lips. He pats his flat, muscular stomach. “Gotta watch my weight to keep up with you.”
“Pops. Stop it,” she sighs, dropping Vi into my mama’s waiting arms. “You’re more fit than a Clydesdale horse.”
“Can you make mine a ranch water, too, babe?” Alanna asks. “I’m also trying to watch my weight, so I don’t need the sugar.”
“Why the fuck would you do that?” Willie grunts, pulling down his bandana on his forehead. “I don’t want to watch your weight go anywhere.”
Alanna tosses her hair to the side. “I didn’t ask for your commentary on my body.”
“Here, I’ll help you with the margaritas,” I say, pushing back from the porch table as they continue bickering.
Dakota makes the world’s best margaritas (her secret is pickled jalape?o slices), but I’ll take any excuse to be alone so I can get my hands on her.
Mr. Cutler lets out a gruff harrumph, cutting me a glare. “I didn’t realize slicing limes was a two-person job.”
He’s playing the grumpy dad, but he can’t fool me. He’s starting to like me again.
Dakota flicks an airy hand. “Stop it, Pops. We’ll be right back.”
Looping her fingers through mine, she guides me from the wraparound porch into the vintage kitchen with a giant wooden island. As she washes the cutting knife at the sink, she gazes out over the sprawling fields highlighted in sunset shades of pink while I gaze at her.
Standing behind her, I brush my scruffy cheek against hers. “You know what I’m thinking about?” I whisper, the warmth of my breath dancing along her ear.
She nestles into me, resting her head against my shoulder. “What’re you thinking about?”
I sway, rocking us in a quiet rhythm. “I’m thinking about getting you home, to bed.”
She tilts her head back, letting the cutting knife clatter to the sink. “Oh? And what would we do at home?”
Smiling into her warm skin, I slide my fingers just under the edge of her jeans, teasing the delicate lace of her panties. “Well, for starters…” I murmur, my voice a husky whisper, “I’d slip you out of these Wranglers.”
“Oh?”
The word is nothing more than a quick gasp, like she can’t spare any more oxygen for a longer sentence.
“Yeah, and then I’d watch those jeans fall to the floor.” I lick up her neck, gently grazing her earlobe with my teeth, and she lets out a sexy little moan that has heat rushing down my body.
I drop my voice to a hopefully seductive hum, singing in her ear. She laughs, loud and addicting. “Are you serenading me, Wyatt Patterson?”
With a swift move, I spin her around to face me, her back against the kitchen counter, and capture her mouth in a slow, leisurely kiss.
Her lips meet mine eagerly, and she tugs on my hair, but I try to slow her down, tease her with my tongue. She’s gunning ahead while I’m always trying to leave her wanting more of me, more of us .
She tastes like the tang of margarita salt and lime juice, and it’s difficult not to drag her back to a bedroom, but I remind myself there are people on the front porch—namely, her perpetually grunting father.
A throat clear slices through the kitchen, breaking us apart.
I pry my lips from her to see Mr. Cutler leaning against the kitchen doorframe with his scowl looking more intimidating than usual, flicking his pocketknife. “So, this is what was taking so long, huh? And here I thought you were just putting a little extra love into my ranch water.”
Dakota rolls her eyes. “Me kissing Wyatt has nothing to do with the love I put into your ranch water, Pops. I’ll always put all the love into yours.”
Mr. Cutler flicks his knife with a sharp snap, eyeing me like we’re fixing to go head-to-head in a face-off, but I’m starting to realize that’s how he looks at most people. It’s not personal. He’s like Dakota. His grumpiness gets mistaken for callousness.
I nudge Dakota in front of me—not just to shield the obvious bulge straining my jeans, but also because I can’t let Mr. Cutler think I’ll let his daughter slip away now that I’ve got her.
He might be intimidating, but being afraid of a woman’s father? That’s the sign of an insecure man who doesn’t know how to treat a woman. I’ve got nothing to fear from Mr. Cutler because I’ll do right by his daughter. I’ll treat her like a queen, so no small blade or scowl is going to rattle me.
The doorbell rings, cutting through the tension with a cheerful jingle. I let go of Dakota. “I’ll get that.”
Mr. Cutler tips his hat at her. “Why don’t you get that, darlin’? I think this man and I need to have a little chat.”
“Okay, but y’all play nice, Pops,” she says, pecking me on the jaw before floating over to do the same to her father’s cheek. She saunters down the hallway, and I can’t help but watch her hips sway in those tight jeans as she goes.
“You better be looking at my daughter’s face, boy,” Mr. Cutler grunts.
I snap my eyes up to his narrowed gaze. I’m not about to tell him I was staring at his daughter’s perfect ass, but I can’t lie to him either. “Actually, sir. I was admiring her legs. She’s been working hard this summer. All those workout sessions are paying off.”
Mr. Cutler snorts like I’m bluffing.
I’m not. Her legs look damn good in those jeans.
He stalks toward me, the old floorboards creaking under his heavy boots. “Look here, I'm not one to beat around the bush, so lay it on me straight. What’s going on between you and my daughter?”
I’ve always held a deep respect for Colt Cutler. He’s protective without being overbearing. Kind without being a pushover. Commanding without being demanding. He’s exactly the kind of father I want to be to Vienna—but I’ll add in a few more smiles.
My moms gave me everything I needed, and they’re some of the best parents, but Mr. Cutler was always a role model, and he deserves my honesty.
I check the hallway. Dakota must be occupied with whoever is at the door because I hear low voices, and it sounds like… a man? I turn back to her father, ignoring the voices. “Sir, I'm completely in love with your daughter, and I have been since the day she pulled me out of that creek.”
He chews on his lip, and I wait, and wait, and wait some more. By the time he steps forward, I’m sweating, but he claps a hand on my back. “Well, it’s about damn time you admitted that, son.”
Son.
That takes me by surprise. “You’re not going to give me a hard time for dating your girl, sir? I wouldn’t blame you. I’m a father too.”
“Now, why would I get mad at a good man for loving my daughter? Any man who looks at her the way you do is fine by me, but I wanted to make sure you were all in,” he rasps, the sound filled with more emotion than I expected. “You’ve got my blessin’, son. I couldn’t think of a better man for her. I always had a feeling it’d be you with how you followed her around every summer.”
I swallow hard at the thought that this man, who loves Dakota just as fiercely as I do, sees me as being worthy of her.
“Thank you,” I scrape out the words. “That means more to me than you know.”
Colt’s brown eyes melt to chocolate pools. “Just promise me you’ll love her with everything you’ve got. She deserves nothing less.”
Dakota might have rough edges, but when she cares, she cares deeply for her people. She’s bold, caring, driven, all the qualities I want my little girl to grow into, and if it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have gone after my own dreams.
She sharpens me, but I soften her, and she deserves a man who’s going to support her goals. I’m not saying life will be as breezy as a flower farm, but I’ll never try to squash her dreams.
“I promise,” I say, and I know that’ll be the easiest promise I ever keep. “I don’t know any other way to love her, sir.”
He pours us each an amber shot of tequila. “And I think it’s about time you started calling me Colt. Enough with the ‘sir.’”
We clink our shot glasses, the tequila burning down my throat, and seal our agreement with a firm handshake. I’m feeling good, really good, about where things are headed.
There’s even a bounce in my step as I walk to the front door, but when I see who’s waiting in the hall, all that positivity dries up. The ominous black cowboy hat casts a shadow on his face, but I’d recognize that annoying drawl anywhere.
I freeze in my tracks.
“Get the hell out,” Dakota’s voice rings, clear and sharp. “I told you to leave, Boone.”