Chapter 22
Vivi couldn’t decide if she needed a cold shower or a strong drink. Seeing as her shower still smelled like sandalwood and naked cowboy, she’d called Jo and asked to meet at the Tipsy Cow.
It was everything the Drunken Rooster wasn't. Dark wood walls absorbed the warm glow of old lanterns, and wagon wheels served as sturdy tables, scarred from years of elbow marks and spilled beer. The air smelled of whiskey and questionable decisions.
Dented wood floors spanned the room and outlined a circular dance floor that was packed with people line dancing.
At one end was a long L-shaped bar with a copper top, at the other a padded pit with an electric bull.
But in the center sat a small stage with a disco ball and two metal poles, which she had a sneaking suspicion weren't used for pole aerobics.
Spanning an entire wall, next to antique, tin advertisement signs, was a neon sign with blinking words that read: If it ain’t from a tap or bottle we ain’t servin’ it. Which ruled out her appletini.
A familiar tingle raced down her spine. Without even looking up she knew who was looking her way.
Boone stood at the back of the bar by the pool table, stick in hand, looking relaxed and way too handsome in a pair of dark jeans, a light blue snap shirt with a white Western designs covering it, and that same white cowboy hat she'd seen on him that first night.
Their eyes locked and he smiled, slow and sure as he raised his beer in salute. She tried smiling back, instead shifted uncomfortably on the barstool. Vivi looked back at her friend Jo and blinked.
Tonight, her friend wore tight black jeans slashed at the knees with razor blades, a vintage Led Zeppelin tee, and Doc Martens. Her hair was streaked with blue highlights, and her massive tattoo was on prominent display. She looked like she should be at a biker bar instead of a small-town saloon.
Suddenly, Vivi felt ridiculous in a red, off-the-shoulder, silky dress and knee-high black leather boots. It was one of those read-the-room moments she should have had when she saw Jo walk up in jeans.
"Remind me again why I'm the only one dressed for this hunt?” Vivi asked. “A hunt that was supposed to be a team effort?"
"This is my hunting outfit," Jo said around a bite of hushpuppies. "Of course, it's also my work-on-my-motorcycle outfit."
"Couldn't you have at least worn a shirt without cut-off sleeves?"
"This is a small town. I can't risk people saying I've lost my edge. It's already bad enough that I'm part of this honeypot scheme of yours."
Vivi peered around the crowded bar, her eyes landing on Boone and a ping of something close to jealousy burned a hole in her belly.
Because there he was, looking like a cowboy god, surrounded by several beautiful and adoring women.
All female, all attractive and, by the looks of their body language, all ready to go.
"Don't get tied up on their account, women just can't help themselves around the Callahan brothers.
They sit down—women lined up. They talk—women listen.
They fart—a woman says excuse you. It's like some bizarre magnetic force that they were born with that comes from their grandaddy.
Even after he married a foreigner, women still adjusted their cardigans and took notice when he came into town. "
Vivi laughed at the idea of any woman trying to one-up Lady Rea.
"Last week you were arguing about fence posts, and now you're acting like you're on Farmer Takes a Wife,'" Jo said.
"Not anymore. I might have been a pushover once upon a time, but I refuse to stand in line."
"There is no line for you," Jo assured her. "The man wants you. See how he's listening to Cheryl? Smiling and nodding at the right moments? He's just doing what his mom taught him, not because he's interested but because he was raised right."
"Girl's speaking the truth," Dottie said, setting down the round of drinks. "Look over there and see how he keeps frowning at Wyatt."
"Who's Wyatt?"
"Oh honey, Wyatt was Boone's biggest competition back in his rodeo days. Wyatt is tall, dreamy and loaded, so turn around and smile at him."
Vivi did and, my oh my, as if on cue, the rodeo star flashed her a smile that was heartthrob-worthy. Not that her heart—or any other part of her for that matter—throbbed.
Boone took a sip of beer and over the rim of his glass sent Wyatt a hard look that would have had a smart man running. Only Wyatt wasn't intimidated because he sent Vivi a wink.
"Oh my god, he winked at me."
"Of course he did," Dottie said. "The fact that you sound so surprised tells us just how much you need to approach Boone."
"I suck at this."
"No, you're just out of practice," Jo said, brutally matter-of-fact. "You've spent your whole adult life dating boys who don't know what to do with a woman. It's time you upgraded to an actual man."
Oof. Direct hit. Vivi winced.
"It was a compliment," Jo added, which did absolutely nothing to soften the blow.
Dottie jabbed a finger toward the mirror behind the bar. "Look at yourself. You are a woman with womanly needs. Nothing wrong with two consenting adults clocking in for some good, old-fashioned extracurriculars, feet-to-Jesus style."
"Boone’s sexy as hell," Jo said, lifting a finger like she was about to preach the gospel.
"Smells like a sin I'd commit twice and, most importantly, he wants you.
Do you know the gift that is? You, New York, need an adult-level, back-arching, toe-curling reset.
No commitment, no oversharing, no heartbreak. Just sweat and serotonin."
"You make it sound so easy," Vivi muttered. "I'm an emotional person. I cry at videos of dogs being reunited with their owners."
"Then take back the control," Dottie said, squeezing her hand. "You came to Bridlewood to rediscover yourself and have some fun. Well, surprise, your fun has arrived. And it's staring at you from across the room like you're the last woman standing on earth."
"Just look at him," Jo whispered.
Vivi did and swallowed hard. Her adventure looked deliciously dangerous and danger was looking right back at her.
Boone stood there all muscle and sun-worn edges, and the shadow of his hat cutting across his face, his eyes barely visible but she could make out the intensity in his stare. She felt it clear down to her core. She pressed her thighs together, but it only made the throbbing worse.
"Do you think Boone's over there feeling guilty because he's eyeing you like he wants you naked except for the boots?" Jo asked.
"No.”
“Then what are you going to do about it?” Jo asked.
“Tonight, I'm taking a small detour on my grand adventure. Tomorrow, I'll get back on track."
Dottie blinked three times, suspicious. "So the love trap is a go?"
"Not love trap." Love implied longevity and she had plans that reached far beyond Bridlewood's zip code. "A sex trap."
"A sex trap?" Dottie sputtered. "Is that like one of those big-city snipe hunts?"
Before Vivi could answer, her core went molten—because she felt him standing right behind her. Close enough that her body recognized him before her brain did. Boone walking in on her plan was not how she'd envisioned her evening going.
"Well, if you'll excuse me, I think I just saw someone I detest walk in," Jo said, and Vivi looked over her shoulder right as Eli walked in.
Boone laughed. "Jo, you've lived here your whole life. I don't think there's anyone in town you don't detest."
“A customer is calling for me,” Dottie said waddling off to the end of the bar where an empty stool sat.
"I'm out," Jo sang, sliding off the stool—being the worst wingman in history—and effectively leaving Vivi to face Boone alone.
Almost able to hear him smile, she remained facing the bar, kicking herself for thinking she could pull this off and wishing he would take a hint and leave. She’d wanted to be the one to approach him, to control the night and influence the outcome. For this to work it had to happen on her terms.
But there he was.
She kept her eyes locked on her beer, tracking a single ribbon of foam as it slid down the bottle like even it was trying to escape this moment.
God, if only she could do the same. Drive home, pull the covers over her head, and die a quiet, socially acceptable death of mortification.
Hiding was her superpower.
It was easier to hitch herself to other people's dreams. You couldn't screw up your own life if you never actually stepped into it.
He slid onto the stool beside her and took her hand like he was picking up where they'd left off in a private conversation they somehow hadn't yet had. With a gentle tug, he angled her toward him until their knees brushed, their space shrinking to nothing.
"Hey, there."
She peeked up at him, cheeks flaming hot enough to add fifty-watts to the bar's lights. He wasn't smiling—he was studying her, brow knit like he was trying to get beneath what made her tick. Then he looked down her body and smiled like he wanted to get beneath her skirt.
"I was going to buy you a drink, but since somebody beat me to it,” he said with a lethal growl undercutting his words. “How about a dance then?"
His accent dipped lower, thicker, as if he wanted his hands on all of her. Her body hummed with anticipation.
His fingers wrapped around hers felt unfairly good.
"I figured your dance card would be full,” she said. “Wouldn't want your adoring public to riot."
He shrugged, eyes never leaving her mouth. "Only girl I'm interested in dancing with tonight is you."
Then his free hand lifted, slowly and so reverently she sighed, then he traced the neckline of her dress. From one shoulder, across the fragile sweep of her collarbone, to the other. His fingertips caught the edge of fabric and eased it down an inch, like he controlled gravity.
Her brain? Nothing but static.
"Why are you always wearing ridiculously impractical boots?" he asked with a grin.
"They aren't ridiculous! I will have you know that they're darling," she said stiffly, shoving at his chest.
He didn't move—didn't even pretend to give her space—just reclaimed her hand and held it there like he had every right to.
The bar roared around them, people hollering, mugs slamming together hard enough to baptize the floor with beer.
All Vivi could focus on was the frantic, steady thrum of Boone's heartbeat beneath her palm.
It was loud and—Holy mary Mother of God—a little wild.
Every embarrassing and awful thing about tonight softened. Her shoulders loosened, her insides turned warm and gooey, like someone had swapped her bones for molasses.
Boone, meanwhile, looked like he was the one in trouble. Sweat at his temples, a tight flicker of nerves in his jaw. It gave her the courage to spill a truth she'd never said aloud.
“I wear heels because I’m barely five-one,” she blurted. “It’s hard to command respect when everyone’s got a height advantage. I don’t like being looked down at.”
The easy humor faded, replaced by something deep and focused. He moved close enough that she caught the scent of his soap, something woodsy and sinful that made her nipples salute like they'd he was a five-star general.
Stay still, she ordered herself. Do not:
Touch him.
Climb him.
Lick him.
Bite him.
Unzip him.
He clearly wasn’t reading the room—or maybe that was exactly what he was doing—because he tugged her up to stand with him, their bodies brushing, and even in heels she had to tilt her chin up so high she was nearly looking at the ceiling.
He was so different than the city guys she’d dated. He was tall, dark, and dangerous to her sanity. But he was always gentle with her making her feel delicate and feminine, like maybe small wasn't a flaw but natures design choice.
"My mama was a tiny thing," he said, voice rough. "Would barely reach my chest if she were still alive. She was the strongest person I’ve ever known." His fingers brushed her hair back, tucking it behind her ear with ridiculous tenderness. "You remind me of her."
A shiver zipped through her so fast she nearly vibrated off the floor. His smug grin confirmed he absolutely felt it.
"Are you gonna dance with me or do I have to beg, Vivi?"
Good God, the way he said her name turned her knees to pudding.
Imagining dancing with him. All that male perfection lining up with her very willing problems, creating friction that would turn her brain into a dirty slideshow. And doing it with the whole town watching? Her tongue turned to dust.
"I'm not sure," she admitted, hopelessly outmatched by this whole casual-sex-has-no-emotions philosophy. "I don't really know how to dance country."
"It's called a two-step. And I'm a hell of a teacher."
He took her hand and turned her in a slow spin, catching her against his chest when she stopped. He leaned down, lips brushing her ear, warm breath skating over her skin.
"Think of it as twirling with a partner. I already know you're an expert when it comes to twirling."
From a distance, they probably looked like a couple gearing up for a dance.
Up close?
Something seismic was shifting.
No cheesy lines or cocky swagger, just Boone revealing depth and softness she hadn't expected and—god help her—it made casual impossible.
She must have hesitated too long because he leaned in, voice a velvet scrape.
"No pressure, Boots. When you decide, just tell me.
" Then he stepped back—long legs, effortless stride—heading across the bar, past the people waiting for their turn with him, and back to the pool table where his brothers awaited him.
Vivi stayed frozen, blinking after him, unsure what the hell had just happened. How had he worked actual feelings into something that was supposed to be cut-and-dried lust?
She looked away, hating herself for caring, focusing on the flat-screen just to get her emotions under control. She had come here with a plan, a perfectly good sex-trap. One twirl and a killer dimple later, she'd thrown the entire agenda into a bonfire.
Her gaze landed on a collection of aged Polaroid taped behind the bar. There must have been a few hundred of them, all with life lessons written beneath them. One caught her eye. It was Rea and based on the bell bottoms she was maybe thirty—mid-laugh, hair wild, eyes bright. Below it, read:
Give him a proper show. Leave him absolutely desperate and wondering how he’ll ever have enough of you.
Vivi read the next one. It was Dottie in a flower girl shirt with Daisies in her long blonde braids. Scribbled beneath her photo read:
Go hard, go wild, and make him beg for more.
“You ready to put your picture up there?” Dottie asked from behind the bar.
“First, I need to figure out who I am before I let anyone else decide who I’m supposed to be.”