Chapter 4
Chapter Four
A Pull He Couldn’t Ignore
Easton
The bike devoured the miles, smooth and steady, drowning out the parts of my brain I didn’t want to hear.
The evening air cooled since the BBQ, filling my lungs with the sharp scent of sagebrush and dust. The sky was sliding into twilight, painted with streaks of pink and fading gold—the kind of night that usually settled me.
Not tonight.
I’d been irritated with myself since four-thirty this afternoon. Since I’d let her name linger on my screen for too long, thumbed her number before I could talk myself out of it, and listened to it ring, only to hang up without leaving a damn voicemail. Stupid.
Emma wasn’t someone I should be calling. She wasn’t someone I should be thinking about. She wasn’t someone I had any business wondering about. Yet here I was, still replaying the moment I hit “Call,” like poking a bruise to see if it still hurt.
It did.
I slowed as I reached the outskirts of Lovelace, the familiar welcome sign flashing by—a wooden board with a hand-painted trout, courtesy of the high school art club.
I eased down to thirty as Main Street straightened toward Ropers.
A few porch lights glowed faintly. A dog barked somewhere behind a fence.
I could smell someone grilling burgers three houses down.
Small-town life. Predictable as sunrise. So why the hell did it feel like something was shifting beneath my boots?
I told myself I was only heading into town for food and maybe a beer. Nothing else. Not a damn thing to do with a woman whose laugh had gotten stuck in my brain a few days ago. A woman whose face had flashed across my mind ever since I dropped her off.
My fingers still remembered the storm-soaked fabric of her dress when I’d helped her inside.
The way her eyes widened as I stepped too close.
The slight catch in her breath that made me wonder if she felt it too—that dangerous pull between two people who were complete opposites.
Since then, I’d spent most of my time trying to forget that moment, but remembering it in vivid detail.
After a fun evening with the Roaring Riders, I should’ve stayed home. I should’ve poured a drink. I should’ve cleaned out the feed room or repaired the leaky gutter I’d been ignoring. Instead, I pulled into Ropers’ parking lot, the bike growling to a stop.
I killed the engine. Silence pressed in, heavy and expectant.
A couple of folks were already heading inside—two ranch hands, boots dusty, talking about their shifts at the feed store.
A truck from the volunteer fire department was parked near the side entrance, the red-and-white emblem catching the last light.
The neon sign buzzed in the window, and a soft melody spilled out each time the door swung open.
The moment I stepped inside, the familiar scent hit—spilled beer, fried food, cheap cologne. The faint lingering tang of pine cleaner the owner swore kept the place from turning into a frat basement. The lights were dim, the pool tables clicked, and a few regulars turned to see who’d walked in.
I gave a nod to June behind the bar before scanning the room—casual, careless, like I wasn’t looking for anything or anyone. That was a lie.
I’d known Emma for a long time and found her interesting as just a friend.
We barely knew each other back then. Mostly, we existed on the edges of each other’s lives—crossing paths at birthday parties for mutual friends, bumping carts at Frontier Market on Sunday mornings, or spotting her sitting on a park bench with her mom, sharing coffee and laughing about something I couldn’t hear.
We’d traded a few awkward smiles, the occasional polite “hey,” and once in a while, we swapped texts about some local issue the Historical Society was fired up about.
I’d noticed her, sure. Hard not to. But noticing someone isn’t the same as letting yourself want them—not until the wild ride together had changed everything.
Then, I saw her.
Emma sat at the bar near the end, elbow propped lightly on the counter, a small smile curving her lips like she had no idea what it did to a man.
Her hair fell in soft waves that brushed her collarbone, glowing each time she turned her head under the low lights.
The cream blouse she wore wasn’t just feminine; it was dangerous in a way that she probably didn’t even realize.
One extra snap undone, a teasing line of skin, something sweet wrapped in something bold.
And that denim skirt—fitted, short, hugging her hips as if it had been tailored for her—hit me harder than it had any right to.
Heat punched low in my gut, sharp and immediate.
Hell.
I wasn’t ready for this version of her. The one who had walked in here not trying to disappear… but trying to be seen.
And right beside her sat a man.
Tall. Broad. Fit. Wearing a navy button-down ironed so straight it looked like he’d prepped for a damn photo shoot. Badge clipped to his belt. An easy posture that spoke of confidence earned through respect.
He leaned in when she spoke. Too close. Too comfortable. Too familiar.
Something ugly shot through me, fast and hot, before I could choke it back.
I didn’t know if he’d made her laugh or how long he’d been sitting there. I didn’t know what they were talking about. But I hated the picture of them together—how she angled slightly toward him, how relaxed she looked, how her smile reached her eyes.
I hated that he was the one sitting beside her… and not me.
She laughed at something he said, soft and warm. Her hand lifted to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture I’d seen only once—from her kitchen doorway, dripping wet from the storm.
My pulse kicked hard.
Then the realization hit like a bucket of cold water.
Camden Holt. Fire Chief. Board member for the Historical Society.
Not competition. Not even close.
Just someone doing his job, talking to someone he respected. Relief washed through me before I could stop it. Then came the embarrassment of having felt anything at all. I almost walked right back out the door.
Then she turned, and her eyes found mine, and the whole damn bar fell away.
Her smile faltered—surprise, maybe something else—before settling into something small but unmistakably pleased. Her gaze flicked down my chest, lingering for a breath before snapping back up as if she wasn’t sure she should’ve looked.
I didn’t look away. Didn’t think I could have if the building caught fire around me.
Her lips parted slightly, like she was about to say something, then she glanced between Holt and me.
The chief followed her gaze, spotted me, and gave a friendly nod of recognition. Then he stood up, adjusting his belt with a sigh.
“Well, Emma, I should get going,” he said. “The wife will be wondering where I am, and I still need to review that grant proposal you sent.”
“Don’t forget to email it before noon on Monday,” she said, smiling warmly.
He chuckled. “Wouldn’t dream of disappointing the Historical Society again. You all scare me more than a garage fire.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” she teased.
He raised a brow. “You threatened to revoke my voting privileges.”
“You missed three meetings in a row!”
He offered his hands in mock surrender. “Lesson learned. Night, Emma.”
Then he glanced at me. “Evening, Easton.”
“Chief,” I replied with a short nod.
He headed for the exit, leaving her alone with an untouched drink and a faint flush dusting her cheeks.
I didn’t move right away. Didn’t trust myself to.
Then her fingers curled around her glass, and she turned back toward the bar, shoulders straightening like she was bracing for something.
Something like me.
Damn.
I exhaled slowly and forced myself to walk toward her. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” I said, offering a sideways grin.
She looked up at me, those brown eyes—warm, soft, deeper than I’d let myself admit—met mine without flinching.
“It was a spur-of-the-moment idea,” she said, shrugging.
Again, my gaze wandered—an involuntary exploration—from her lips, soft and inviting, to the tantalizing gap in her blouse that hinted at what lay beneath, then down to the skirt that skimmed her thighs with a gentle caress.
It was understated, yet undeniably hot. Each detail hit like a shot of whiskey—hot and rough, settling low in my gut and spreading outward until my skin felt too damn tight for my body.
“You look…” My throat tightened. Hell no. I wasn’t complimenting her. Not here. Not when she already looked at me like I had the power to ruin her night. “Different,” I cleared my throat.
She blinked. “Good different or… bad different?”
I pulled out the stool beside her, keeping my expression neutral. “Just different.”
She let out a breathy laugh that told me she knew exactly what I meant. “Thanks,” she said softly.
June slid a cold beer toward me. I caught it with one hand and leaned my forearms on the bar. Emma watched the motion, her gaze tracking the movement like she couldn’t help it. I shouldn’t have liked that. But I did.
“Thought you were doing a BBQ with the club tonight,” she said.
“It’s over,” I replied. “Finished early.”
She nodded, lifting her glass. The cherry gloss she wore caught the low light, and I almost forgot the question I’d meant to ask her. “Chief Holt keeping you company?” I asked, keeping my tone casual.
She nodded. “You know, he’s on the Historical Society board. He’s helping with a grant proposal.”
“So a work conversation.”
She smiled. “Always.”
Good. Fine. Normal. No reason for my pulse to settle the way it did.
She lifted her drink, then paused. “I saw your call,” she said quietly. “Earlier.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Just wanted to check on you after the storm.”
“I figured.” Her thumb traced the rim of her glass. “I… didn’t know if I should call you back.”
Not couldn’t. Shouldn’t.
Something about that scraped down my spine.
I shifted on the stool, trying not to read too damn much into it. Maybe she’d hesitated. Maybe she didn’t want to seem eager. Maybe she’d stared at the phone the same way I had and couldn’t decide what the hell to do.
“I wasn’t trying to bother you,” I said.
“You didn’t bother me.” She met my eyes for a beat, cheeks warming. “I just didn’t know what you wanted.”
She glanced toward the dance floor, then back at me, then down at her glass like it held instructions she was trying to follow. Her fingers fidgeted with the condensation.
“Um…” She swallowed, then forced herself to look up at me. “Would you want to… dance?”
My heart knocked once—hard.
But she wasn’t done embarrassing herself yet. She rushed the next part, cheeks warming.
“It’s just—I know you can dance,” she said, her voice tumbling over itself. “I mean, I saw you at Sawyer and Lilly’s vow renewal slash photo shoot, remember? Dancing with that woman—Monique? The one from out of town?”
Monique. Sawyer’s VA counselor. The woman who’d practically shoved me in Emma’s direction by the end of the night.
Emma bit her lip, eyes dropping. “Anyway, you were… good.” A breath. “Really good. Like… unfairly good.”
I blinked at her, momentarily speechless.
“You were watching?” The words caught in my throat.
She flushed. “You were in the middle of the dance area. Hard not to watch.”
But that wasn’t the truth. She’d watched. She’d noticed. And she remembered.
Emma forced a breathy laugh. “Look, I’m not saying I expect you to twirl me around or anything dramatic, I just—” She broke off, shaking her head. “I should stop talking.”
I leaned in just enough that she had to look up. “Emma.”
Her eyes lifted. “Yeah,” she said quietly.
“I want to dance with you.”
She froze—like she wasn’t sure she’d heard me right—then her lips parted in a tiny, stunned smile.
“Oh,” she breathed. “Okay.”
She set her drink down too fast, the glass clinking against the bar. Her hand trembled slightly when she stood. She smoothed her skirt, lifted her chin, and tried to act casual.
She failed miserably. And God help me, it was adorable.
I stepped off the stool and held out my hand. Her fingers slid into mine—warm, soft, hesitant but willing. The moment our hands touched, something inside me shifted. I pushed past it and stood, keeping hold of her hand like letting go would ruin something I didn’t have a name for.
“Come on,” I said quietly. “Before you change your mind.”
A shaky laugh slipped out of her—breathless, flirty, unsure—and for some reason it steadied me instead of rattling me. She rose from her stool and fell into step beside me, her hand warm in mine as we headed toward the dance floor.