Chapter 15 - Jensen
I don’t like what Catalina’s wearing tonight. Not even a little.
I take another slow sip of my water from where I’m tucked into the corner of the bar, half in shadow, half pretending I’m not blatantly watching her and Brock.
A woman walks up to my table and smiles like she’s doing me a favor by looking my way. “Care if I join you, cowboy?”
“I do.”
Her brows pull together. “O…kay then.” She walks away. Good. She was blocking my view anyway. I need zero distractions from my current full-time job: glowering at Catalina from across the room like a man with absolutely no self-respect. Making sure no one touches her. Even her date.
Her back. Her ass. Her hips. Her everything.
I’m not touching her either. I’ve made that clear.
In my head. Out loud to myself in the mirror when I was getting ready in my old bedroom, knowing she was ten feet away getting dressed in the guest bedroom.
I set a line, put up the boundary, told myself I wouldn’t disrespect her by making a move unless she told me to. You know, did the whole bit.
I even convinced myself we were becoming friends first. This morning, when we were on the plane, her whole pretty face lit up when I brought her that eye mask, wine bottle, and pizza.
I could handle that. I can handle knowing that I'm one of her friends now.
One of the few trusted people in her circle who know her secrets… and her warmth.
Except apparently friends wear sundresses with red flowers on them and low-cut necklines that show off her perky tits.
Since when? Since when does she get dressed up like…that and yet, I’ve never seen it?
Friends don’t keep that from each other. Friends don’t show up looking like trouble wrapped in sin for a date with another man. Friends would at least give the other person a heads up before they walk out of their guest bedroom with their dark hair shiny, smelling like cocoa and sunshine.
And why the hell does that red floral print bring out the warmth in her skin even more? The deep, almost-henna brown of her hair? The softness around her eyes that she tries so hard to pretend she doesn’t have except when she's drinking?
And worst of all—why the fuck is she smiling at this loser?
I'm going to have some strong words with June when I see her next. Because this is all her fault. Catalina didn't even want to get on a dating app. June practically forced this onto her.
Her date looks like every other civilian Nashville guy, which is exactly why I try to avoid this city anytime I’m home.
There's a mustache. A cowboy hat. Carhartt shirt that’s never seen a day of real work.
Boots too clean. Hands too soft. The kind of man who plays cowboy on the weekends, then goes home to his cute little apartment and logs onto his remote job to count numbers and read emails.
Two things I'd hate, probably because I could never do them efficiently.
Nope. Couldn’t be me. I’m not built like that.
But Catalina doesn’t seem annoyed by his whole…
shtick. She looks different from the last few nights I've seen her on the circuit. Looser. Softer. There’s a lightness in her shoulders that isn’t always there, and I wonder how much of that has to do with me being here, or with her doing something new.
I hope it’s all because of me. I hope it's because she feels safe knowing I’m nearby.
Her arm shifts as she laughs at something Brock says, the muscles in her shoulder catching the dim light. Her dress sways around her hips, and I have to grit my teeth when the guy lets his gaze slide down her back and—yeah. There it is. He’s checking out her ass.
Not obviously. Not crassly. But enough that my fists clench. He has no idea she’s only here for three nights. No clue she came with me. No clue she’s already too good for him.
He thinks he’s getting a one-night stand.
I doubt he even knows she’s a fucking doctor.
That her hands aren't something to hold on a date because they're insured on a five-million-dollar policy each. That they're more than valuable, they're precise. They’re gentle. They’re the most important hands in any room she walks into. They’re perfect exactly like the rest of her.
There’s no fucking way he knows any of that. I might not get to sleep with her again, but he sure as hell isn’t going to either. Honestly, I’m not going to let anyone get that close.
Yeah, Jensen. That’ll work. Trying to control a woman like Catalina is like trying to cage the wind with your bare hands.
I watch her pick up her glass of red wine, her second by my count, and take a sip. I’ve been keeping track, making sure she’s having fun without pushing it too far. Then she picks up the dart for her turn. And of course, like everything else she tries, she nails it. First try. Center of the board.
I have no idea if she’s ever played before, but I wouldn’t be surprised if this is her first time and she’s already better than most regulars.
She's so good at everything she touches.
A natural talent. How is it that the people in her life have held back complimenting her?
I've only known her for two weeks, and all I want to do is tell her how fucking cool she is all the time.
Why doesn't she think she's worthy of hearing that?
Her date leans in, murmuring something into her ear. She gives him a polite smile and a nod. He heads toward the restroom. She heads toward me.
“You’re being super creepy,” she hisses as soon as she reaches me, hands planted on her hips.
I smile. Because I like it when she yells at me.
“Did he notice me watching you two?”
“No. But I did.”
“Well, what would you rather I do?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing. I’m ready to leave.”
My whole-body lights up like someone flipped a switch. Because nothing about her body language was saying she wanted to leave that guy. If anything, her body language was saying that she was settling in for a long night of darts and laughs, and I was preparing for a long night of pain.
“Did he already pay?” I say, without asking her to elaborate on why she’s ready to go.
“I don’t want to be rude. He's a nice guy.”
My jaw ticks. When the hell has she ever cared about being rude?
“Better yet, I’ll pay. You go to my truck. I’ll cash you out.”
She laughs lightly. “You’re not having fun supervising my date, Dad?”
I lean in, voice dropping. “I’m not a daddy yet, but we can change that tonight.”
Immediate mistake.
I'm going to blame it on me being sober and having to watch her laugh with another man for the last two hours. I thought it would come across as teasing or flirty. It did not. It definitely came across as suggestive and highly inappropriate.
Her eyes widen. Her mouth parts in surprise. She blinks like I slapped her with a future that she didn’t sign up for.
Fuck.
“That came out wrong,” I say quickly, trying to recover.
I told myself I wasn’t going to disrespect her, wasn’t going to cross any more lines because I didn't want her to put back up those professional boundaries she likes to throw around. Yet here I am, sprinting through lines like I don’t see them, making completely inappropriate innuendos while she's on a date with another man.
She blinks again. She doesn’t look mad. That’s a good sign. But she does look surprised. I can’t get a read on what she’s thinking.
“It was a joke,” I add. "Sometimes I don't think before I talk, and often times I don’t know where a sentence is going to take me when I start it."
She clears her throat and straightens her shoulders. Her date comes back to their table and looks around the bar like he’s trying to find her. Fuck me. I really ruined the night.
“Let me...” she starts and pauses. “Let me go talk to him.”
Then she turns and walks away from me. No glance over her shoulder. No flirty smirk or promise she’s going to tell him goodbye. Nothing.
I sink into my barstool, hating how tight my chest feels, like someone’s cinched a belt around my ribs. I know I should probably get the hell out of here. Be a grown-up. Let her have her night. Let her date be her date instead of me groveling in the corner when I know I shouldn’t have her.
But I can’t. I can’t leave her. She’s in a new city. This is a first date for her. She barely even flirts unless she forgets she’s doing it. The thought of her navigating some random Nashville bar alone with a stranger who thinks tonight’s his lucky night? Not a chance.
What if he hurt her? Fuck, I'd never forgive myself for leaving her.
I watch as she and dress-up cowboy line up for another round of darts. She doesn’t look my way once.
Another woman approaches my table, touching my shoulder with long nails.
“Hey, handsome. Can I buy you a drink?”
“No.”
I don’t even turn to see what she looks like. I don't care. All I see is Catalina.
The woman scoffs and walks away. I let out a slow, steady breath, trying to think through how I can make this right.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s all I am to women.
One reckless, wild night they check off their bucket list before going back to their real lives.
They see the boots, the hat, the dust on my jeans.
They see the “cowboy” aesthetic, whatever the hell Pinterest thinks that is, and they like it.
They love the thrill of watching me when I’m in the arena, risking everything while their friends scream in the stands with my last name worn on their back.
They get to claim me when I’m doing something public.
They like the danger, the edges of me that flirt with death and then come into their bed at night. They don’t give a shit if I wake up the next day. They don’t care whether I break something, or if my body hurts from a hard hit.
To them, I’m hands, tongue, and dick. I'm a story to tell years later when they’re old. Something to feel in the moment, not someone to choose.
And lately… I’ve been stupid enough to hope Catalina didn’t think that about me.
That she saw past all that. That she didn’t only see the wild, messy guy who crashes into her life with pizza on a plane and stains on his shirt.
That maybe I was becoming more to her than a fling or a rebellion or a chapter she’d laugh about someday.
It felt like she cared about me. Not just the athlete she had to mend, but me the guy who has personality outside of bull-riding.
But watching her across this bar, giving this guy a real smile, ease dropping from her shoulders like she’s actually comfortable…
I start to wonder if I got it wrong. That I’m the “for now” guy.
The safe experiment. The palate cleanser before she moves on to someone who fits her clean, brilliant, surgeon world.
That she'd never actually end up with a guy like me.
The thought sends me right back to that elementary school classroom—little Louisa, me yanking her hair bows and then hearing her whispering to her friend about how dumb I was, how she’d never date a boy like me because her daddy wants her to marry a doctor.
I’m about to stand, about to walk out into the street and put myself out of this self-inflicted misery, thinking about whether I can find one of those gigantic bicycle-powered drinking carts the bachelorette parties pedal around town to plow me over, when I notice a shift in Catalina.
She says something to her date, grabs her purse, and immediately heads toward the exit.
He doesn’t follow. He stays inside, already lining up darts for another game. I’m on my feet and following her before I even think about it, weaving through bachelorettes in sashes and drunk tourists who think cowboy hats are personality traits.
Outside, the street is loud and packed. Neon signs everywhere. People laughing. Catalina stands under one of the lights, arms folded across her chest, cheeks a little flushed, but her eyes are clear.
“You okay?” I ask her.
“Yeah.” She shrugs.
I want to ask what the hell happened back there to change her mind.
“Did you have fun?” I say instead.
I step in front of her, protecting her with my body from a cluster of women passing by debating which honky-tonk to stumble into next.
“Yeah,” she says simply.
I give her a nod. “Alright. Let’s go.”
My old truck, the one I keep at my grandma’s when I’m on the road, is only a short walk down the street. When we reach it, I open the passenger door without a word. She slides inside. I round the hood and climb into the driver's seat, waiting a beat before putting the key in the ignition.
I wish she'd said she hated it. I wish she'd said he was boring, or weird, or smelled bad. Anything that would loosen the knot in my stomach. She says nothing.
“So… you going to see him again?” I ask, trying to sound casual about it and failing miserably.
She laughs softly and shakes her head. “No.”
The relief hits me so hard I almost sway. Good.
I clear my throat. “What's next for your big night out in Nashville?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Let’s go back to your grandma’s house,” she says, brushing a hand down her dress like she’s shaking off the rest of the night. “I’m not in the mood to see more of the city tonight.”
I can’t think of a single thing I’d rather do. Maybe I'm a bit of a hopeless romantic, but Catalina's nothing like little Louisa was.
“You got it, Doc. Let’s go home.”