Chapter 6
Neon Moon
Callie
Cuddled up in bed, I grin at my phone, blushing at the memory of being caught moaning.
Cash is turning out to be a very sweet cowboy casanova.
He’s a little too good at saying the right thing.
It’s been such an incredibly long time since I was desired—someone interested in me, for me, not as a possession or something to control.
I don’t know yet if it’s genuine or some sort of ploy, so for now, I have to play it safe. I can’t let myself get in the same position I was in before.
I reach for the red checkered blanket folded up at the end of the bed and pull it toward me.
It smells like a grumpy cowboy—a little spicy, but warm like sandalwood.
I inhale deeply before folding it back up and putting it back.
Today, I’m returning it. I don’t have the right to get comfort from the blanket of an asshole who just happened to be driving by. He didn’t even introduce himself.
He clearly has no desire to know me. Everyone in town has made it clear they know who I am and where to find me, so he could have if he wanted to.
After another day of lounging in the library and snacking on pastries from Mrs. Cox’s kitchen, it’s after four so I can take the trek down to Waylon’s.
It’s warmer today and the snow is melting.
I should be able to pull my car out of the ditch this weekend, and I could leave Monday; just in time for my prepaid week to be up.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out, see an unknown number flash across the screen, and block it. I don’t answer unknown numbers anymore. Roger has called me from all kinds of numbers over the last year and I’ve made the mistake of answering a few times.
Not today, Satan.
I see the text notification light up.
Unknown
Please Callie, answer the phone. I miss you. Please.
Delete.
Cowboy Cash
The cows were all over the place today but luckily, my trusty sidekicks got it under control.
Attached is a photo of two cattle dogs, sitting side by side in front of a gorgeous brown horse, saddled and looking content. Is this his little family?
Let me guess. Curly, Larry, and Moe?
Cowboy Cash
hahaha. No—Daisy, Tank, and Snapper. My best friends.
Almost melting into the ground at the adorableness of this man, I slip my phone back into my pocket, grab the blanket, and head out the door.
The weather outside is glorious; it’s a bright, clear day over Montana, and the sky goes on for miles.
I have trouble tearing my eyes away from the fluffy clouds.
The snow is starting to melt, and the bright green spring grass starts peeking through.
Even the dirty snow-ice in the gutters is disappearing.
I can see the rooftops of the houses and buildings, and the little town I’ve been absorbed in the last couple of days transforms into something out of a movie.
I think I might be in love with this place. Something about it just feels right, like I have been searching and searching for something that has been waiting here for me.
Waylon’s is at the end of the block, right where Mrs. Cox said it would be.
It’s a black building with large windows I can’t see through, though the neon signs in them are clearly visible.
There is just a large wooden sign affixed to the building.
No hours of operation, no little sticker to indicate they take Visa or Mastercard.
Yanking the heavy door open, I step inside the dimly lit, smokey room. There is that smell—the warm grumpy cowboy smell, a little spicy, a little musky, and sandalwood. An old country song croons through the speakers; I listen carefully and hum the tune to Neon Moon.
Approaching the long bar against the wall, I find it empty.
I look around; there isn’t anyone in here at all.
The door was open, and it’s after four, when I was told he would be here.
Clutching his blanket to my chest, I get another hit of his smell, and it warms me down to my toes. I’ll just leave it here.
“I’m coming!” comes a yell, from somewhere behind the bar, his breathing sounding a little labored. I snort at his phrasing—and the way he’s clearly out of breath.
I settle down on one of the barstools, pulling out my wallet to check my cash reserves since this definitely seems like a cash-only sort of place.
I figure I can get a beer, or something, introduce myself, say thank you.
The polite thing, the right thing. I hold his blanket tightly to my chest, unsure about laying it on the bartop, though it does appear clean.
I look around and take in the comfortable, but definitely divey, atmosphere.
It’s dark, cozy almost. Though, if it was crowded, I might feel differently.
The floors and bartop are well worn hardwoods.
The high-top tables with their stools look well-loved and the pool tables are a little too large and a little tilted.
It’s beautiful in the same way this town is. It fits perfectly.
“I can just pour my own drink,” I call out, growing some confidence, since I’m the only person here.
A head, covered in shaggy, sweaty, brown hair, immediately pops through the door to the right of the bar, dark eyes finding me and going round like saucers. I laugh at the face he’s making; he clearly wasn’t expecting to see me. I hold up his blanket and his eyes narrow.
The head disappears and reappears a moment later, with the same black hat jammed on it, except now, he’s standing there in just a tank top, in the process of putting his flannel back on.
He has colorful landscapes and wildlife tattooed up and down both of his arms. His stomach is flat and his body well defined, like he works hard but not at the gym.
I stare, baldly, at him before he covers himself.
Buttoning just enough buttons to hide the art from me completely, he cocks a hip against the bar. “Hey, bad driver. What can I do for you?”
“Hey, grumpy cowboy, I brought your blanket.”
“If you want a cowboy, you’re in the wrong place. There isn’t one here.” He inclines his head toward the door, uninviting me to his bar. This man is such a jerk. Why am I kind of attracted to him?
“I just wanted to return your blanket and say thank you. I appreciate you stopping to make sure I’m okay. It was—nice.” I over pronounce nice, since he’s clearly unfamiliar with it. I hold the blanket out, but he stares at it like it’s a snake.
“You can keep it. That all?”
“I was hoping for a drink.”
“Well, just like there ain’t no cowboys, there also ain’t no juices and umbrellas. Beer and,” he trails off, gesturing vaguely to the wall of bottles behind him, “cash.”
“Perfect, Grumpy, I’ll take a Walton’s and ginger. Can you handle that?” I sass back, sick of his attitude.
“Yep. Name’s Duke, by the way.” He gives me a knowing look. “Though I figure you know that, since you’re here.”
I shrug at him. “Small towns, Duke. Where everybody’s business is everybody’s. I’m Caroline.”
When he turns his back to me to grab my whiskey, I take the opportunity to ogle him a little more.
He has a nice ass in his jeans; cowboy or no, he fits what my brain thinks one looks like.
His shirt is stretched across his shoulder blades, and I wonder what it would feel like to run my nails over them.
How would it feel to have his smell on my skin and his hands on me?
Callie, what the hell, girl?