Chapter Twenty-One
The plane touches down with a jolt that rattles me awake, and Bryce looks down with that lazy grin that makes me want to slap him.
“Welcome to Lawton, Chuck,” he says as I lift my head from his shoulder and swipe the drool from the corner of my mouth.
I unbuckle my seat belt and stretch my arms over my head. “Looks thrilling,” I mumble as I glance out the window at the small regional airport baking under the early summer sun.
He chuckles low. “You’ll change your mind once you try the barbecue.”
“If you say so.”
We deplane, and I run to the restroom while Bryce fetches my suitcase.
I meet him at the baggage claim carousel, and we head outside.
The heat hits us like a slap to the face.
Bryce leads the way through the parking lot, where a teen stands beside the shiny black GMC Sierra Denali Ultimate that Shawn arranged for us.
It gleams like a polished mirror, chrome and leather everywhere.
I whistle. “This is the rental?”
“Must be,” he says as he signs for the truck and tucks the key fob into his pocket.
“Wow. Shawn went all out,” I say as he picks up my suitcase like it weighs nothing and tosses it into the back seat. “What, were all the regular trucks sold out?”
He shrugs. “Dry Canyon’s footing the bill. Might as well ride in style.”
I circle the truck, dragging my fingers along the paint. “Style? This thing looks like it should come with a chauffeur and champagne service.”
Bryce opens the door for me and tips his hat as if he were the chauffeur. “You complaining about the ride, ma’am?”
“Just observing. You, in a luxury pickup—it’s kinda funny. Like putting a bull in a tuxedo.”
He smirks as I climb in. “Long as the bull looks good in it.”
He does. Damn him, he does.
It’s a short ride to the hotel, a nice place near the Lo Ranch Arena, which is actually located in the town of Apache, Oklahoma. It’s a casino hotel with a big sign boasting Garrett Tuttle as its headlining performer in the music venue this week. The parking lot is full.
“Why’s it so crowded?” I ask as we pull in.
Bryce throws the truck in park. “Rodeo’s in town.”
“Oh, right,” I mutter. “That makes sense.”
Inside, the air-conditioning feels like heaven. Bryce handles check-in while I take a walk around. There are guests milling around the lobby; some are in bathing suits, headed for the pool. I peek inside the casino, and it’s packed with patrons.
When I wander back, I hear the desk clerk say, “One room, two queens.”
I stop short. “Hold up. One room?”
Bryce doesn’t flinch. “That’s what they’ve got. Everything else is booked.”
I cross my arms. “How awfully convenient.”
He meets my glare with a calm look that I want to shake off of him. “Rodeo’s in town,” he repeats.
“Uh-huh.” I lean toward the desk clerk—a sweet-faced girl with a long braid and too much lip gloss. “There’s nothing else?”
She checks her computer again, typing way too slowly. “Sorry, ma’am. We’re at capacity until next week.”
“What about a nearby hotel?” I ask, and she gives me a sympathetic smile. “Every hotel in the area is full. The rodeo brings in a lot of folks. Plus, Garrett Tuttle is in town all week.”
I glance back at Bryce, who looks smug as hell. “What about another hotel in the next town over?” I ask her.
She shakes her head. “You could try, but with the rodeo—”
“The rodeo’s in town,” I finish flatly.
She nods. Then she leans in and whispers, “Exactly. And honestly, if I were you, I wouldn’t complain about being stuck in a room with Bryce Raintree.”
Bryce’s brow arches, and I swear I can feel my face turning every shade of red.
“You know who he is, right?” she asks.
“Of course. I’m traveling with him,” I say.
Her eyes flicker up to him, and then she leans forward, voice dropping conspiratorially. “If it were me, I’d have kept the king bed.”
I bite back a groan. “Fantastic. Thanks for all your help.”
Bryce takes the key cards, trying hard not to laugh.
“Not. A. Word,” I warn him as we head for the elevator.
He lifts his hands innocently. “Didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
We ride the elevator to our floor.
The room’s decent—neutral tones, two queen beds, a window overlooking the pool. Bryce tosses his bag on the desk while I stop just inside the door and take a deep breath.
“I get the bed near the window,” I say.
He glances from me to the identical beds. “Does it matter?”
I squint at him. “Of course it does. You have to sleep in the one closest to the door. In case someone breaks in.”
His eyes light with amusement. “So I get attacked first?”
“Duh, you’re big and strong. You can fight them off,” I say as I lower the handle and pick up my suitcase, heading for the farthest bed.
He meets me and takes the heavy bag from my hands, dipping to look me in the eye. “I got you, darlin’. I promise I won’t let any bad guys get to you.”
A shiver crawls down my spine at his words.
“I call the shower first,” I say quickly. Needing a little space.
He smirks as he drops my bag on the edge of my mattress. “Go ahead.”
I grab the essentials and lock myself inside the spacious bathroom.
I take my time getting ready, partly out of stubbornness, partly because the evening’s event—a dinner with Dry Canyon Distilling—is at the 360 Restaurant.
I looked the place up earlier, and it’s fine dining.
I don’t attend too many fancy affairs, and the thought makes me nervous.
I curl my hair, then pull it to one side with a gold clip, swipe on soft makeup, and slide into the gown I packed last-minute—peach-colored, one-shouldered, mesh overlay, high slit. Elegant, but still me. I pair it with my tan cowgirl boots because stilettos are not in my vocabulary.
When I step out, Bryce’s reflection in the mirror nearly undoes me.
He’s in black from head to toe—jeans, dress shirt, sports coat, and that damn cowboy hat.
The only splash of color is his tan belt with an engraved gold Pbr World Finals buckle.
His beard is trimmed close, and his hair is brushed back.
When he glances at me, my pulse flat-out forgets how to function.
The man looks good in a sweat-soaked T-shirt and worn-out jeans, but, damn, this works too.
“Wow, Chuck,” he says softly. “You clean up nice.”
“Thanks.” I force a shrug. “You don’t look too bad yourself, cowboy.”
The restaurant’s at the top of the hotel. It’s upscale and rustic—dark walls, low lighting, polished oak tables. The Dry Canyon folks have rented out a private section. A host leads us to a long table, where a handful of men in sports coats and women in designer dresses are seated.
Bryce shakes hands with an older man whose silver hair and crisp suit scream money. “Charli, this is Micah Ottinger,” Bryce says. “Owner of Dry Canyon Distilling.”
Micah smiles warmly, eyes twinkling. “Bryce, you’ve never mentioned this lovely creature before. Where have you been hiding her?”
“Charli is helping me with my rehab,” Bryce says.
I give him a quizzical look, but he gives me a slight shrug.
I extend a hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Ottinger.”
“Ah,” he says with a wink. “You’re a lucky man to have such beautiful assistance, Bryce. And please, Charli, call me Micah.”
Bryce doesn’t correct him—I’m no assistant, and I shoot him a glare, which he ignores completely.
“Come on. Let’s introduce you to the rest of the team.”
Micah leads us around the table, introducing Bryce to the key members of the company—from the CEO to the marketing manager.
Then he shows us to our places, seated beside him and his wife.
The table’s filled with whiskey bottles—including Bull Rope, the newest label—and crystal glasses that never stay empty long.
The speeches start after appetizers. Micah and a few execs toast to the new partnership, talking about heritage and pride and how Bryce Raintree embodies the spirit of the brand.
Talking about him like he’s a product, not a real person.
Bryce listens politely, but I see the twitch of his jaw—the same one he gets when people approach and fawn all over him in public like they did that night at The Soused Cow.
It’s subtle, and he hides it well behind his practiced smile, but it’s there.
When he catches me watching, he tips his glass toward mine and clinks them together.
Dinner’s incredible—jumbo shrimp and fire-roasted fillets, garlic mashed potatoes, and steamed asparagus with hollandaise.
The whiskey goes down smooth, like liquid caramel, and before long, the table’s full of laughter.
Micah tells a story about how his father built his first distillery in the old barn behind his grandparents’ farm, and Bryce counters with a tale from his grandfather’s rodeo days.
He was quite the bull rider in the ’60s and Bryce’s mentor when he was just a boy, riding sheep in his hometown rodeo’s mutton busting event.
By the time dessert rolls around, I’ve almost forgotten why I was mad at him as I cling to every word.
Almost.
Back in the elevator, Bryce carries a to-go bag with the desserts we never touched and a full bottle of Bull Rope.
We ride to our floor in silence. When the door opens, the hallway’s quiet, except for the soft hum of the air conditioner.
My boots click against the tiled floor, my dress swishing with every step.
Inside the room, I drop my clutch on the console table in front of the television and exhale as I kick off my boots. “Well, that went better than expected.”
He sets the bag down on the desk and grins. “Told you you’d have fun.”
“I didn’t say fun. I said better than expected.”
He unscrews the bottle cap and pours two drinks into plastic cups from the bathroom. “Close enough.”
I take mine and bring it to my lips. Warmth slides through me, chasing away the chill of the air-conditioning.
“Thanks for coming with me,” he says after a moment. His tone is softer, genuine. “It was actually nice not to have to attend that alone.”
I shrug. “You and Matty didn’t give me much of a choice.”
“You could have said no.” He leans against the wall, eyes tracing me. “But I’m glad you didn’t.”
Something flickers in my chest—want—which is impossible to ignore. I set my cup down. “You’re full of sweet talk tonight, aren’t you?”
He steps closer. “Just truth.”
The air between us thickens.
“I’m going to change,” I say. I grab a T-shirt and sleep shorts from my bag and head to the bathroom, needing distance. But once I’m inside, the zipper on my dress catches. “Damn thing,” I mutter, reaching behind me and tugging with all my might.
“Bryce,” I call out in frustration as I step back into the room. “Would you, uh, mind?”
He’s already there, hands steady at my back. His fingers brush the nape of my neck before lowering the zipper, slow, careful, almost reverent.
Then I feel it—his lips, soft and deliberate, press against the bare skin just below my hairline.
I freeze.
The kiss lingers as his hand comes up and guides the gauzy material off my shoulder. The gown falls in a soft pile at my feet, and a whisper of warmth slides all the way down my spine.
“Oh, what the hell?” I breathe, turning to face him.
Before I can second-guess myself, I grab the collar of his shirt and kiss him.
He kisses me back instantly, hard and hungry, like he’s been waiting for this since the night in his cabin. His hat hits the floor, then his jacket. I’m not sure whose hands are moving faster—mine or his—as we start undressing each other, but it doesn’t matter.
He tastes like whiskey and heat, and when he pulls me against him, the world tilts. I stumble backward onto his bed, dragging him down with me. We laugh against each other’s mouths, breathless, desperate.
He braces his weight above me on one arm, eyes searching mine as he sweeps my hair behind my ear. “You sure?”
I nod, heart pounding.
“Guess you didn’t quite get it out of your system after all.”
“Shut up, Raintree.”
That earns me a grin before his lips find mine again. The kiss is slower this time, deeper, as his callous hands slide along my skin.