Chapter Twelve
I shouldn’t be watching him.
But hell if I can stop myself.
He’s at the bar—those broad shoulders easy to spot—leaning one arm against the counter, talking to one of the female bartenders. I notice a small crowd is starting to form behind him. When the bartender walks off, he stands and glances back, noticing them.
One of the guys steps away from the others, shakes his hand, then pulls a phone from his back pocket, and Bryce puts his arm around him and smiles.
That’s the first of a dozen pictures. Even though I see him glancing over his shoulder at the glasses the bartender set down, he keeps smiling for snap after snap, like he’s in no rush, like he owns the place.
Like he knows the whole damn room is watching him.
A few minutes ago, he was watching me.
I can still feel it—the thrum under my skin, the spark that ignited when I caught his eyes across the dance floor.
The crowd was a blur, bodies moving, boots stomping, my sisters singing at the top of their lungs.
And then there was him. Standing by our table with that unreadable look, stormy eyes locked on me.
I should’ve looked away.
God knows I should’ve.
Instead, I let the music flow through me and moved like I was dancing for him. Every sway, every spin, every flick of my hair. I could feel his gaze like a physical touch.
And for a minute, I pretended he was just a stranger in a bar because I liked it. Liked being seen. Liked that a man like him—big, strong, rough-edged, and built like sin—was looking at me.
Until he wasn’t.
Until he turned and walked away like it didn’t mean a damn thing.
Next time I spotted him, he was at the bar with some barely dressed girl, practically suctioned to his side. She looked like she’d stepped right off the cover of Cowgirls In Style Magazine. Wearing shorts so short that they should be illegal. And she was touching him.
Her chest pressed against his arm. His tattooed arm.
My blood went hot.
I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t feel this. But, God help me, I wanted to march across this bar, grab him by that stupid leather chain around his neck, and drag him away from her before she got too comfortable.
Instead, I knocked back another shot of tequila.
I glance to the tray in the center of the table, and then I grab another and toss it back, too, for good measure.
The burn hits my throat and rushes to my head, warm and reckless.
“Easy there, sis,” Harleigh murmurs beside me. She leans in close, her breath smelling faintly of lime. “I hope you aren’t thinkin’ that drinking more alcohol is gonna make him less attractive. Because that little scheme is gonna backfire on you.”
I groan. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Harleigh grins. “Oh, I think I do. You’ve been staring holes through that man since we walked in. Hell, since supper. You might as well hang a Reserved for Charli sign on his barstool.”
“Please,” I mutter as I open the bottle of water I took from him. “He’s just a pain-in-the-ass client.”
“Uh-huh,” she drawls. “A pain-in-the-ass client who jumped right to doing your bidding.”
“He’s just getting me a drink. He got Cabe and Caison drinks.”
She laughs as her eyes fall to the water bottle in my hand, the sound light and teasing, and I try to ignore her.
Bryce finally breaks free, and he and Cabe head back with our drinks.
“Oh my God!” Shelby squeals from across the table, nodding toward him as they approach. “Who do we have here? Don’t tell me. It’s the Bryce Raintree, world-famous bull rider, gracing little ol’ us with his presence.”
Bryce rolls his eyes as he sets my cocktail in front of me.
I look up at him, a smile tugging at my mouth. “I do believe it is.”
Shelby whistles low. “Lord help us, he’s hot.” She feigns fanning herself.
“Shelby,” I warn.
“What? He is. Don’t tell me you don’t see it. Just ask them,” she says, gesturing to the girls dancing right in front of our table.
The wannabe cowgirl from earlier is in the middle. Her eyes on Bryce.
Harleigh grins. “Oh, they see it all right.”
I glare at both of them, but they’re laughing now, giggling like little sisters who have my number and aren’t afraid to use it.
Cabe, sitting on the other side of the table, raises his beer and mutters, “You girls are a damn headache. Ignore them, Ry.”
Shelby sticks her tongue out at him.
“Headache,” he repeats.
I shake my head, trying to focus on anything else—Wildhaven Junction, the taste of my cocktail, the chatter of voices. But my gaze betrays me, drifting back toward the woman still staring a hole through us.
Bryce gives her a smile, but he isn’t making any move to join her. In fact, he shifts back, just an inch, standing behind my stool like he’s keeping his distance.
And for some reason, that tiny move makes something in my chest unclench.
He doesn’t seem into her. Not really.
He’s famous. Women probably line up for the chance to get close to him all the time. And he has to be polite. Right?
Caison stands and walks over to Bryce’s side, asking him about riding Midnight Storm, and they fall into conversation.
The girls continue to dance right on top of us through the next song, and I’m sitting here, pretending it doesn’t bother me.
Matty leans over from her seat. “You look like you’re about to pick a fight, Charli.”
I blink. “What?”
She tilts her head toward them. “You’ve got that look. The one you get when you’re about to make a very bad decision.”
I huff. “I do not. I’m fine.”
She gives me the glare—the one that says she’s seen through my lies since I was five. “You sure about that? What’s wrong?”
I grab another shot glass and suck it back just to have something to do with my hands. “We’re here to celebrate your birthday. And the only thing wrong is, I’m the lone one drinking.”
Her eyes soften, and she reaches for a shot.
I relax as I watch her swallow it down because tonight is about her and nothing is wrong.
Because I don’t want Bryce.
Not really.
It’s just … I don’t want her to have him.
Bryce’s hand rests on the back of my stool as he chats with Caison, and his pinkie grazes the back of my neck.
My pulse stutters.
Shit. Harleigh might be right.
I push the old-fashioned away. The alcohol is starting to make me think—and feel—a little reckless.
I glance up, and he doesn’t smile. Doesn’t wink. Doesn’t acknowledge the touch as he continues his conversation.
And suddenly, the room feels too small, too hot.
Then, just as the band begins playing a slower tune, I feel his hand brushing my hair over my shoulder.
He bends to my ear. “Dance with me, Chuck.”
My sisters are all staring at us now.
I glare at them. “You all wanna go dance or something?” I ask.
“Nope,” Harleigh says. “We’re good right here.”
Bryce looks down at me expectantly.
“I think we’ll sit this one out,” I say.
Harleigh kicks me under the table, and I kick her right back—harder.
Bryce’s eyes move to the dance floor, and for a second, I think he may go join the other group of girls, but he drops into the empty stool beside me instead. Close. So close that his thigh brushes mine under the table. My body betrays me instantly, a spark shooting up my leg.
“You sure know how to bruise a guy’s ego,” he says, but his eyes are dancing with amusement.
“Figured you could be knocked down a peg, cowboy,” I mutter.
He laughs, low and easy, and leans back, one arm still resting along the back of my stool. “Sufficiently knocked down.”
The band strikes a familiar chord—the kind that has people rushing back to the dance floor. My sisters start to rise.
Oh, now they wanna dance.
“Come on, Charli,” Shelby says, grabbing Harleigh’s hand. “This is our song!”
“I’m good,” I say quickly.
They grin like devils, and I scowl at them as they disappear into the crowd, dragging Cabe and Caison behind them and leaving me at the table with Bryce.
He watches them go, then glances back at me. “You don’t wanna dance anymore?”
“Not on command.”
He studies me for a long second. “You looked like you were enjoying it earlier.”
“You mean when you were watching me?”
His mouth curves slow. “I was.”
The air shifts between us.
“You shouldn’t do that,” I say quietly.
“What?”
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
I glance his way. Reaching for my abandoned cocktail.
He leans closer, his breath brushing my ear. “Like what, Chuck?”
My pulse skips, and I turn to him. We’re nose to nose, and his eyes slide down to my lips.
“Like this?”
The words land low and rough, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
I force a smirk. “Exactly.”
I should shut this down. I should stand up, walk away, do literally anything other than sit here, letting him get under my skin.
“I have to pee,” I say, jumping up abruptly.
He grins, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to flash a dimple in the shadow of hair along his jaw. One I didn’t notice before.
Dammit.
“Be right back.”