Chapter Three
Her hand felt small in his. Delicate. Elegant. Everything he was not. And what the hell was he doing here with her? Yeah, a one-night stand would blow the lid off some of the tension clawing through him, but was it fair to her?
Slaying demons was not the same thing as slaking lust. But her bold gaze—black as an oil slick—was determined and gleamed with the promise of fun. Still, Calhoun held back. She didn’t even whisper hookup vibe.
And he wasn’t himself.
He wasn’t even sure who he was anymore. He’d been counting on Kai and duty and his brothers to ground him.
He didn’t want to hurt her with what might feel like a broken promise tomorrow.
He’d been born into that life, had bathed, breathed, and eaten bait and switch his entire childhood. He’d deliberately left that life and his family behind to live a life of honor.
He was thirty-three now. Had he succeeded?
“My friends call me Big O,” he said as they walked back through the double swinging doors of Grey’s Saloon that made it feel like they’d both been sucked back in time, and yet Rohan had assured him that a high-priced decorator hadn’t created the look. Time had. The building was the oldest one in town and the longest-run establishment.
She laughed. “I can just imagine how you got that nickname. Big O. Then I guess for tonight I’m Little J.”
Her laugh was addictive. It was big. Loud. Unexpected for such a small woman, not at all flirty, but her laugh spoke more of being surprised and amused than trying to entice.
He nearly explained why he hated his given name Otis. He was the fifth, and none of them had lived lives of honor in his opinion. They’d only wanted money and power. They’d wanted to be envied and feared and courted, yet never liked, not even by their wives or children. Growing up had been more like being held hostage instead of belonging to a family.
But why did this woman so easily encourage him to snap open the lid on his past? Suspicion stirred.
“Let’s do this. Shoot a whiskey.” She angled for the bar, shoulders back like there was a test waiting. “Wow,” she faltered, and he felt the small press of her body briefly against his. “How can there be so many?”
She turned to him, her eyes wide with wonder and full of stars, like it was his fault. “What do you want?” she asked. “I should have known a cowboy bar would have a Selection with a capital S. I’m open to suggestions. Should we splurge—isn’t there a brand called Top Shelf?” She looked up at him so trustingly that his heart skipped a beat.
Damn, but she was sweet. How could she be so innocent and sexy at the same time?
“Darling,” he drawled. Yeah, he could get into the cowboy spirit again. Cross, Huck and Rohan made it look effortless, and they all had jobs at ranches already and had assumed he was looking to do the same.
What did he want?
No idea. Cross had been out since last August. Huck a bit before that. And they were both married. Fathers. Family men. Ranch hands.
Their happiness shouldn’t feel like a body blow or a slapped-shut door.
He smiled to shake off his creeping dark doubts and laid his finger under her sharp chin that had the sexiest dent. Startled, her eyes skewed to him, and he tilted her chin up.
“The best whiskey is literally kept on the top shelf.”
She turned back around, scanned the top shelf behind the bar and laughed. “Outted for being a Grey’s Saloon virgin.” She pressed up against the bar and held up a small hand like she was hailing a cab.
“What’s it gonna be?” asked the handsome bartender, who Rohan had earlier greeted as Reese.
Jory looked at him, then the top shelf and then back at the bartender.
“I’m a neophyte. I want a whiskey,” she said. “A really good one.”
Reese’s attention shifted to him, his expression professionally polite, but silently asking him price range. Calhoun had already scanned the labels. Nothing his father had taught him how to drink and savor over a business deal would be small-town Montana, but he’d left California a long time ago.
“Two fingers of Blanton’s Gold for both of us,” he ordered. He handed over his credit card. “Open tab.”
“I was buying first round,” she objected, and he nearly said she could buy him breakfast. “I can pay for my drink, Big O,” she objected, and his mind shot to having her up against a wall, legs around his waist, with how dirty she made his teasing nickname sound.
“I know, J.” Again he touched the dent in her chin because he wanted to. “But not tonight and not with me.”
The bartender poured the drinks and slid them toward them.
“I should pay,” she said, expression serious. “I don’t want you to expect…”
He handed her the whiskey and brushed his lips over her full mouth because it had been tempting him since she’d first gaped at him, and it was public enough and light enough that she’d feel safe.
“Don’t worry about me, J. I am the king of no expectations.” He remembered to smile to soften the bitterness the words evoked. He clinked his glass with hers.
The bartender snorted softly and left to serve someone else.
“Do we shoot it?” she asked looking at the amber liquid doubtfully.
“Your choice. You can shoot or sip and savor.”
“Really? Huh. Do you know about wine too?”
What he didn’t know about wine despite his best intentions would fit in this tumbler.
“Yeah. Cheers.”
She sipped. He smiled at how her eyes widened, and the tip of her tongue moistened her upper lip as if chasing a drop.
“It’s good, but it burns.” She smiled up at him, and the memories of his father’s anger and bitterness, settled. He’d tightly leashed thoughts about his past and his family when he’d been serving, but his grip seemed to have loosened over the past couple of days after musting out.
“Kinda like life,” he threw out, taking another sip.
“It should be. I want it to be. No more hiding.” She held up her glass, holding his gaze. “Cheers.” She took another sip. “You don’t have to keep an open tab. I won’t drink another. I like to be in control.”
He could take that a lot of ways, and he liked each one.
“Oh. But you might. Or we might want food.”
“Let’s keep our options open,” he suggested.
“I like that, Big O.” She tested his name. “It sounds so sexual, but I suppose that’s the point.” She laughed again. “I’m glad I braved it, put on clothes and left my hotel room.”
There were dozens of one-liners that streamed through his head, but he was probably pretty feral by now, and Little J seemed na?ve. Innocent. Everything he hadn’t been for as long as he could remember.
“Me too. You had a list for tonight. I believe whiskey was first and darts was somewhere on it.” He looked across the bar to a large alcove that held two pool tables and beyond that several dart boards safely spaced apart.
Her smile lit her eyes, and he found himself also glad that he hadn’t left with his buddies when each of them had offered him a place to bunk for the night.
*
“We won! Wewon!” Jory pumped her arms high in the air and did a little dance. She’d never played darts before, and it was fun. She’d been surprisingly good at it too—usually books, tests, grades and medical diagnoses had provided her only victories in life.
“You have deadly aim.” Big O gave her a look that curled her toes.
He held his palms out, elbows a little higher than ninety degrees, almost like he was surrendering to cops. What? Oh. High five.
She double high-fived him, and he held his hands down low and then twisted in a half circle one way and then another, and she chased his palms, loving the slap and the feel of his calloused skin against hers.
“Thanks, man. Gracias.” Big O high-fived and shook hands with the two ranch workers they’d played against.
His Spanish had been flawless as he’d spoken to their two opponents, and he’d asked a lot of questions about the town, the ranches, and the work that proved Jory’s suspicion that he wasn’t local. She hadn’t let on that she too was fluent, and she wasn’t sure why.
Was she really brave enough to toss caution and inhibitions to the wind and bring him back to her room? Could she have a one-night stand with a gorgeous, sexy stranger? Did he want to?
She watched him talk to the two men. With his wide shoulders; deep voice; powerful torso that narrowed at his waist and hips; his long, muscular tatted arms with such a visual flex of muscle and tendon, ending in large hands, Jory had a feeling she’d regret it for a very long time if she didn’t try. Even clad in denim, his legs hinted at strength.
And he was friendly, fun. She’d felt for the first time in her life she’d been on a team.
Big O was unlike any man she’d ever met.
“Pool?” His thick brows, dramatically darker than his sun-tousled hair, rose in inquiry. “I believe that was on the list.”
“I’ve never actually played,” Jory said, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her. “But I was really good at geometry.”
Her answer threw him for a moment, and then his spectacular eyes lightened in amusement. “Let’s see how theory and practice collide.”
Pool was fun. Jory loved the way Big O racked up the balls. The way his hands deftly touched the balls was sexy, and when he showed her how to hold the pool cue, she almost grabbed his shirt and propositioned him to go back to her room right then. The effect he had on her was visceral.
Exciting.
But she was happy they’d stayed, because pool was amazing foreplay. Once, Big O helped her to line up a shot, his body so tantalizingly close, that she could feel his heat and smell a hint of something citrusy and green and earthy that made her hungry. She could listen to his voice, deep and warm, forever, even if he was reading instructions to construct IKEA furniture.
She had a feeling he was going easy on her and that sparked her competitive personality. She walked around the table, looking for a shot, aware of the way he watched her, and even the fact that she didn’t know his real name—Omar, Orlando, Oliver; she didn’t know—was hot.
Olive would be a cute name for a girl.
What was happening?
She’d never thought about having a kid in her life. No. She’d avoided the possibility of it by hermitting and focusing solely on her studies and training and work.
She drew in a deep breath.
No. No babies. And her biological clock was not allowed to start tick-tocking. Ever. Kids were expensive. And being a kid was lonely.
She bent over the table, eyes on the spot where she wanted to hit the red ball.
“Nice ass.” A man she hadn’t noticed sidled up to her, his hand already cupping her and pressing her against the pool table. “Tight. Buy you a drink?”
Jory, who’d never been felt up by a stranger in her life because she was rarely anywhere but at work, squeaked in shock and froze. Before she could accept that this was really happening and process—stunned embarrassment and fear—Big O had caught the man’s hand, jerked it around his back high and pressed him face down into the pool table.
“Never. Ever.” His voice steeled. “Ever touch a woman like that who’s not yours and hasn’t indicated she wants your hand anywhere near her body. Clear?”
Jory didn’t know what to do. The area around them had quieted. She felt like she stood in a spotlight. Had she enticed the man with her determination to make the shot? She didn’t want Big O to hurt him, but an unexpected warmth filtered through her at his reaction and casual show of strength. Never once had anyone defended her or stood up for her.
She almost said, ‘it’s okay,’ but O’s glittering eyes sparked fire and his hero’s jaw was so sharply defined she wanted to lick it. The warmth that had been burbling in her belly all night and making her limbs feel fluid heated and burned, and her panties felt beyond damp for this man.
“We got a problem?” The bartender, Reese, had left his post and stood between the bar and the entertainment alcove.
“None because he’s leaving,” Big O said, not loosening his grip, but not appearing to strain.
“You got a ride home, Ross?” the bartender asked.
“My brother,” the man mumbled, and another man approached the table.
“I got him, Reese. Sorry, ma’am.” The man looked at her and tipped his hat, and Jory felt like she was in a movie.
No one had ever called her ma’am, and if anyone in the bar knew who she was—and she was a bit weirded out but relieved no one had recognized her although she’d seen a few familiar faces—they wouldn’t be ma’aming her.
Would they?
She’d changed. She was no longer the girl with the free school breakfast, lunch and afternoon snack. She didn’t get a backpack of food for the weekend or Mrs. Monroe at the grocery store encouraging her to take the misshapen fruit and vegetables and expired pasta home. She was successful. Financially solvent. Employed. She’d taken care of her family—what was left of it.
Maybe her former tormenting classmates had changed too. It wasn’t like everyone had been awful, but she’d only focused on the negative comments, the shunners.
O released the man, and stepped back, his body loose-limbed yet ready, but nothing more happened. Ross left with his brother, and the moment of tension popped like it hadn’t been.
“Hungry?” He turned toward her, blocking her from the view of the remaining patrons in Grey’s that had been slowly emptying on the Sunday evening. His hand lifted and she thought maybe he’d touch her. She wanted him to, so badly. She closed her eyes and leaned in hoping to feel the brush of his fingers against her cheek.
She drew in a shaky breath. How did women do it? How did a woman show a man she wanted him? She wanted Big O to make a move but was excited about trying to find some of her own sexual power—okay, probably not power, but maybe a spark?
She was nervous and yet excited to take the next step.
“I feel a little like Cinderella at the ball,” she said, “only I have no intention of running out or leaving a shoe behind. These were expensive.” She stuck out one ankle boot.
“A ball?” he echoed. “Being homecoming king at my prom was as close as I ever got to a ball.”
“Of course you were the king. I never even went to a dance in high school.” What a social disaster that would have been, although Mr. Lane—the guidance counselor—had told her the school had a scholarship fund for activities and one of the moms, who made the costumes for the plays, Mary Krummel, had offered to make Jory a dress. She’d shown Jory the material, and it had been a beautiful maroon and plum ombré, and she’d talked of making it an empire-waist style with tiny silver stars beading the belt, and Jory had been so stunned by the beauty of the fabric, touched, surprised and embarrassed by the offer, she’d whispered ‘no’ and then had run away to hide in the bathroom and cry.
Or course she’d been discovered and mocked.
But now was not the time to remember past social disasters. Now was the time to create a new Jory Quinn, although looking down at her suede boots that she’d purchased as an impulse before heading to Marietta, she wondered if she’d chosen them because of the color and how it had reminded her of the dress that never was.
“We can rectify that,” Big O said, smiling down at her, and Jory had a feeling he was far more perceptive than she wanted him to be, and yet, in a way, she longed for someone to see her—really see her. And like her anyway.
“Would you like to dance, or we could eat something first?”
He stared into her eyes, and Jory felt like she stood on the ledge of something that had nothing to do with food or dancing. She wanted to step off and fly, but what if she crashed?
I’ll get up again.
“Yes.” She covered his hand with hers. “Dancing then eating sounds good to me.”
“Me too.” He pulled her into his arms, his hold light, but she felt the stamp of him on her bones, and she wondered if he was talking about food or, like her, sex. “This isn’t a high school gym with a bunch of balloons or a fancy hotel ballroom, but—” he held out his hand “—I would enjoy dancing with you, J.”
They still hadn’t exchanged names, and the secrecy was exciting and added to the fantasy element of the night. She tentatively clasped his fingers, and he led her to the small, cleared-out area of the dance floor, just as Blake Shelton’s ‘Home’ started to play.
Not a message appropriate to her or her life, and yet what if she had a place she wanted to be, a person she wanted to be with?
Pushing away the ping of sadness, Jory focused on making another fun memory, losing herself in the music and the man. Jory had no idea how to dance, but when he pulled her into his body, and she felt his hard, warm strength meld with her smaller, physically unremarkable frame, she didn’t care. She closed her eyes. Tonight she was outside of herself. Outside of her life. And she was just going to let go and live.
They danced to two slower songs, his body guiding hers around the small, makeshift dance floor, and she didn’t care that no one else was dancing. O really knew how to move, and she wanted to savor every second, every nuance, and when someone put on a faster song that she was totally unfamiliar with as she’d avoided country music because it always reminded her of Marietta, Big O taught her how to two-step.
When the song ended, she held on to his hands. ‘Now,’ everything inside her whispered, and she thought of the song from Hamilton that she’d never had the chance or the money to see on the stage. But it was time to take her shot.
“Want to get something to eat, J?” he asked, but his expression asked something different.
“I have a room at the Graff,” she said, hoping she sounded coolly sophisticated instead of nervous and wildly inexperienced. O likely had women hitting on him when he walked down the street. She hadn’t missed the greedy and appraising looks aimed at him all night. And she’d been stunned his eyes hadn’t once appreciatively appraised any other women.
“They have room service if you’re hungry hungry.”
Oh. My. God. I sound like a dork.
“I’m not as interested in food, at the moment, J, and I want us to be clear.”
He was going to leave. She’d blown it. But she’d gone further tonight than she’d imagined she could.
“Let’s walk,” he said.
Of course. Cowboy code. He’d walk her back to the hotel and since there were still a few single woman chatting in groups, he’d probably return for a better offer.
She tried not to feel deflated when he paid the tab and, arm around her waist, he led her outside.
“I’m just looking for tonight, J.”
“Me too.” She was so relieved she almost jumped on him. “Just tonight and then poof.”
He smiled. “Another fairy-tale reference? I’m no prince, J.”
“And I’m no princess in need of a rescue,” she replied and really did feel like Cinderella—shoe returned—when he smiled.
*
Hand in handthey walked the few blocks to the hotel.
“Cute town,” he commented. “Couldn’t believe what I was seeing when I first drove in.” He couldn’t believe what he was doing—holding J’s hand. He’d had too many one-night stands to count, but he’d never left holding any woman’s hand like they were sweethearts and walked down a western-tricked-out downtown.
“Yeah, me too.” She sounded rueful. There was a story there, and Calhoun had an urge to ask, though sharing more than their bodies was not on the manifest tonight.
Manifest.
Not in the military anymore. Calhoun hadn’t felt in charge of his life or his choices until he’d seized the prestigious West Point scholarship offer to play lacrosse at eighteen in an adolescent, testosterone-filled surge of righteous fury. It had been a blatant middle finger to his father, and a permanent rent from his family. His father had chased him out of the house, fists flying, and Calhoun had for the first time stood his ground.
And no family members had stepped forward to intervene. Calhoun had held his pose like he was in the ring, ready to block this time. Ready to let rip. Usually his father yelled, but that day his father’s voice had been ice.
“Never come back.”
And he hadn’t. And he wouldn’t. And before he could pack anything, his father had started seizing everything in his room and hurling it out the window where he’d lit it on a ‘funeral pyre.’
He’d managed to grab a few things—his lacrosse gear, laptop, a few clothes and his truck keys—and as he drove out of the old olive-tree-lined lane and through the massive metal gates to the family’s legacy ranch the final time, he’d seen the smoke rising up.
He wasn’t sure he’d made the right decision for years, not until he joined the Special Force team of the Coyote Cowboys. He’d finally felt valuable. And when he’d switched career tracks to be a working military dog handler, he’d finally felt a bond he’d been missing all his life.
“You’ve gone quiet,” J said. She paused as they turned the corner and he saw a beautiful hotel a block away, luminous and welcoming in the dark. She tugged on his hand, and he tore his gaze away from the hotel that looked like something his family would have purchased and gutted and renovated until the charm, history and context were dust.
“It’s okay to change your mind.”
He stared down into her midnight eyes. She meant it. Kindness and understanding radiated from her, and something pinged in his chest—what? Conscience? A reminder of how he’d once been, ‘sweet’? Vulnerable? ‘A pussy’ was what his father had often called him, which hadn’t made sense since his sisters and aunts had been strong women and his grandmother definitely went toe-to-toe with her husband and sons.
“That’s my line.” He had to dig for his usual ‘just one of the guys’ persona.
“Since I am in full possession of my agency, not visually impaired, and the one whiskey metabolized after the first hour, my mind is made up, unless yours isn’t.”
She had an unusual, quirky, sort of formal, overeducated way of speaking sometimes that should have been weird, but he found it charming.
He brought her knuckles to his mouth and kissed each one, his gaze searching hers. She wasn’t his type, not at all. And he had a feeling he was only seeing about twenty percent of her picture, if that. J was more of a deep plunge into a glacier-fed alpine lake than a quick swim across a gym pool. And that was troubling. But she had expressive eyes that grounded him, a mouth made for kissing, and a cute, compact body. And she was smart—just the way she’d discussed the angles and trajectory for the games and added up everyone’s dart scores without writing anything down showed she was a math whiz.
Intelligence was a huge turn-on for him.
Which is why I don’t look for it in one-night stands.
He was getting smart with her tonight. Maybe even smarter than him. But instead of turning away, he was rooted. Intrigued and man enough to not turn down what she was offering. His first night of freedom, and this was where he was headed.
He dug up a smile and volleyed her words back to her.
“Since I am in full possession of my agency and not visually impaired, I have not changed my mind. I had an unexpectedly good time tonight, J.”
Her head tilted and surprise gleamed in her midnight eyes at the word ‘unexpectedly’ and he liked that too—that she caught nuance.
“You are fun and just what the doctor ordered on my first night in town.”
Her brow crinkled. “How did you—” She broke off. “I don’t think anyone has ever called me fun,” she said. “I’m usually seen as too serious and studious.”
“Maybe you were hanging with the wrong people.”
“Solid conclusion.” She smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind the next time I walk on the wild side.”
“Wild?”
“You look like you can offer wild, Big O.”
That dumb nickname. She deserved better, and yet he liked being anonymous. He felt unmoored being alone and out of the service. He’d counted on Kai anchoring him, and yet Ryder wouldn’t arrive with Kai until tomorrow morning.
“Can you?”
“As wild as your historic yet elegant-looking hotel can allow.”
“It was called the Wild West for a reason.”
He liked her quick rapport. He’d never had that with another woman.
Because you weren’t looking for that.
He’d just wanted to get laid to shake off some tension. Tonight he was acting out of character.
Unmoored.
Maybe he should have gone navy, he mocked his thoughts.
“Shall we?” He looked up at the hotel with the wide sweep of a circular drive and stairs that matched. The doors, even from this distance, looked massive and custom.
The lobby was just as beautiful as the outside of the hotel, and when he saw the Irish-themed pub, he paused, inspiration hitting.
“Just a sec, I want to look at their wine list.”
“You don’t need to try to get me tipsy.” She followed him.
He scowled. “If you were tipsy, I’d be helping you to your room and leaving.”
“I’d be doing the same for you.”
“Who said chivalry was dead?”
He asked for the drink list, flipped to dessert wines and ordered a glass of port.
“Port?” Her dark brows furrowed. “That’s a new one. I don’t even think I know what that is. It sounds like something they’d drink in an Agatha Christie book before someone keeled over and Miss Marple starts dithering during her devastating detecting.”
“Nicely alliterative. Characters often drank sherry in Christie mysteries, and you’re going to like the plans I have for the port.”
Fire flared in her eyes along with curiosity, and he was happy he’d followed his impulse. Her voice had been so analytic, tinged with a little sadness when she said that she’d never been considered fun.
He’d had a lot of fun over the years. He’d made the fun happen as if he was still pushing against his old man.
No reason not to make his first night in a new town memorable. Tomorrow he’d meet up with Kai and fulfill his vow to Jace. After that, his future was a blank slate.