1. Piper
Piper
SIX MONTHS AGO
“Two beers, please,” one of the giggling women in front of me says, her eyes sweeping across the bar like she’s hunting down something she fully intends to regret by morning.
I grab a couple of bottles, pop the caps off, and slide them across the counter.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out where they’re headed when I follow their perfectly manicured, glitter-tipped fingernails.
They point toward the back table where five guys, all cut from the same gene pool, are packed around one table like God’s gift to ovaries.
Moving here has been like stepping straight into the hometown of every thirst trap that’s ever existed.
Rosewood Falls isn’t just full of hot cowboys—it breeds them.
Tall, broad-shouldered men poured into tight denim, all swagger and sweat, walking around like they invented sex and damn well know it, and since this is the best bar in town, I get a front-row seat most nights.
The Velvet Stag has been my sanctuary these past four weeks. When I showed up in town a month ago with nothing but fifty bucks crumpled in my pocket, Callan Crawford gave me a job as a favor to my sister. He didn’t owe me a damn thing, but he gave me a shot anyway, and for that, I’m grateful.
Despite Violet’s constant claims that he’s an ass who makes her want to rip her hair out strand by strand, Callan is everything you’d want in a boss.
He’s all sunshine, smiles, and golden retriever energy wrapped in muscle and a man bun.
He’s charming as hell, and I liked him the second I met him.
Nothing like the sleazeball I worked for back in my hometown, who used to undress me with his beady, rat-like eyes every time I clocked in, believing a paycheck gave him the right to leer and make comments about my chest.
“Gonna need you in a bigger shirt—those nipples are practically saying hello.”
Or my personal favorite:
“Maybe lay off the bread, pumpkin. That ass is distracting my guys from actually drinking.”
Like, somehow my existence was the problem, not the fact that his sleazy rodeo bar was nothing but an excuse for drunk cowboys to ogle women while pretending to care about bull-riding scores.
But Callan’s different, and I’ve struck real fucking lucky here because instead of forgetting I have a face, he shows up with respect and a smile and makes you feel like you belong the second you step through the door.
His kindness radiates like summer heat, warming everything it touches, but there’s a bite beneath the gentleness, an edge to him that sneaks up on you.
He never really loses his temper, but the one time I saw him snap, it was because of Violet.
She’d stopped by the bar, just to say hi, and a group of out-of-town assholes thought it was open season.
They circled her like vultures, throwing out crude comments, taking their cowboy hats off, and shoving them onto her head like that somehow made her theirs.
I saw the switch flip in Callan’s eyes from across the bar. One second, he was drying a glass, sleeves rolled to the elbows, forearms flexing beneath ink and sun-kissed skin. Next, he was cutting through the crowd like six feet of pure fury.
Violet can absolutely handle herself, but Callan’s timing was perfect, considering she’d already wrapped her hand around a pool cue like it was her weapon of choice.
She didn’t flinch when the guy in front of her invaded her space.
She just stared him down like she was daring him to take one more step toward her.
But Callan didn’t wait for that step. He positioned himself in front of my sister like a wall, his body blocking hers completely as he unleashed hell. The guys muttered their apologies, tripping over each other on their way out, and the door slammed shut behind them.
For a second, I think even my sister was impressed. However, she’d probably bite off her own tongue before admitting it.
Callan is stupidly pretty in that god, you’re hot, and everyone knows it kind of way, but his older brother? Well, that man is a whole different breed.
Christian Crawford.
Hottest damn cowboy I’ve ever seen.
Eyes that could melt steel, and too much power packed into that body to be legal. He walks like sin in denim and talks like he could ruin you before breakfast and still have time to saddle a horse.
Every time he walks through that door, he ends up parked on the same stool, nursing his drink for hours while keeping me company like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Meanwhile, I’m left swooning behind the bar like some insta-lust trope come to life with a cowboy I can’t stop staring at.
Tonight, I’m wearing a black skirt that just about covers my ass and a fitted purple top that hugs every curve just right, and when I see him walk into the bar, all broad shoulders and wearing that hat, my stomach does a stupid little flip.
Before I can even stop myself, I’m straightening up and lengthening my body to match his alpha energy with my own.
“Hey, darlin’. Is my brother around?” He has the kind of voice that makes even the good girls want to spread their legs.
“Nope. Callan’s got a date. He told me very specifically that he’s trusting me to lock up tonight as long as I call someone from here to my car.”
“Yeah, that sounds exactly like my brother.” When he laughs, the sound slides down my spine like warm honey, pooling low in my belly.
“Can I get you a drink?”
“Whiskey neat, please, and a beer.” I turn away, hiding the giddy little dance my insides just did at that smile.
By the time I spin back around, I’ve got my shit together—or at least, I’ve slapped on the faux confidence of a woman who does.
Christian takes a seat as I set both drinks down, the glass meeting the bar with a soft clink.
“Are you expecting company?” I nod toward the beer.
“My son’s coming over.”
“I didn’t realize you had a son.” My eyes dart to his ring finger, triple-checking what I’ve already memorized like the thirsty bitch I am.
Still naked, thank God.
Not that it matters.
A man like Christian Crawford exists in a league so far above mine, we’re not even playing the same sport. Hell, we’re not even in the same damn universe, but I like to live in my little delulu world where a man like him would want to do some very dirty things to me.
“Travis… He lives in the next town over with his mom.”
Christian takes a slow sip of whiskey, and while I’m still reeling from this delicious new daddy development, one of the giggling women—pretty sure her name’s Daisy—sidles up beside him, fresh off her little detour from the Walker brothers’ table.
“Haven’t seen you in a while, Christian. How you doing?”
“Good, thanks, Daze. You keeping well?”
He doesn’t look at her. He just keeps staring into the amber swirl like it’s far more interesting than whatever she’s offering.
“I’d be doing a whole lot better if you bought me a drink.”
He looks irritated.
Not in a big, obvious way, just a flicker of something restrained, a tightening around his eyes. I don’t know him well, but I know that look. The one that says he doesn’t want to be bothered.
His gaze finally lifts, and I freeze when his eyes meet mine. “Drink for Daisy when you get a chance. ”
I give him a polite smile, reach into the cooler, and slide a beer bottle across the bar.
“Can I join you?” Daisy’s already invading his space, claiming the barstool to his left.
“I’m waiting on my boy, but maybe later.”
His forced smile is more of a formality than anything real, and it takes half a second for Daisy to pick up on it, straightening like she’s been dismissed before retreating to the jukebox.
She’s huddled up with her friend, their heads close together, whispering and giggling while sneaking glances over here like a couple of horny teenagers—never mind that they’re both well into their thirties, practically drooling over a man who couldn’t look less interested if he tried.
But then again, who the hell am I to judge? I’m standing here watching him too. At least Daisy had the balls to shoot her shot and put herself out there. However, witnessing that shutdown is more than enough reason for me to never consider putting myself in the same position.
“Brutal.” I shouldn’t laugh, but it escapes me before I can catch it.
Christian raises his eyes to mine. “Nice enough woman, but she’s been trying to crawl into my bed for years.”
“Not your type?” I ask, even though I should probably keep my mouth shut and my thoughts to myself. Especially since I’m sitting here shamelessly eye-fucking a man who’s got at least fifteen years on me and absolutely no business looking this good.
I’m fully aware I’m parked in deluluville with a one-way ticket to not a chance in hell —but the fantasy’s hot, and my vibrator doesn’t judge.
“Something like that,” he says, the corner of his mouth tugging into the ghost of a smile. “What about you? You got a man?”
“Nope. No man.”
“You don’t want one?”
“Can’t find one.” My laugh sounds hollow, even to me, but he doesn’t let me hide behind it.
“I’d bet my ass you’ve got guys tripping over themselves here for a shot at you. ”
“Not true, and even if it were, I don’t think drunk guys hitting on the bartender count. This place is mainly dick and testosterone. I’m just all they’ve got.”
“Trust me, I’ve got eyes, and that’s not why men are falling all over you.”
I barely have time to register his words before the bar door suddenly swings open, and a tall, blond, and unfairly pretty guy walks in.
He looks young and has money written all over him.
But it’s only when he strides up to the bar and grabs the untouched beer beside Christian that I make the connection.
His son.
Jesus Christ, of course the Crawford gene pool doesn’t do anything halfway.
“You wanted to see me?” I hear the bite in Baby Crawford’s voice immediately.
Christian rises from his stool, jerking his chin toward an empty booth in the far corner, and I watch them make their way across the room like two wolves circling each other.
The bar has settled into that late-evening lull that comes when most of the regulars have paid their tabs and headed home to their beds.
What’s left behind is the low hum of conversation and the occasional scrape of a chair across the scuffed floorboards.
Still, no matter how many times I run a towel over the same glass or how determined I am to focus on literally anything else, my attention keeps drifting back to the two men tucked away in the corner booth.
Younger Crawford’s hands are flying, punctuating every sentence with his agitation, and it’s crystal clear he’s pissed about something.
Meanwhile, Christian sits there like a stone wall, absorbing every verbal blow without so much as a flinch.
He doesn’t fire back or raise his voice, but I catch the subtle tightening of his jaw and the way his fingers clamp around his glass like he’s holding back the weight of an entire storm.
Twenty minutes drag by before Christian finally pushes back from the table and heads my way with his empty glass.
“Goodnight, Piper. ”
“Night,” I manage, watching him leave like I’m not mentally photographing how his ass looks in those jeans.
But before I can properly mourn the loss of that view, Baby Crawford slides onto the empty stool in front of me, wearing a smile that probably gets him into all kinds of trouble.
“Hey there,” he says, and the first thing that hits me is how different his eyes are from his dad’s. Where Christian’s eyes are as dark as black coffee, his kid’s are light and golden, like whiskey held up to sunlight.
“Hey yourself,” I reply, setting the rag down on the bar and meeting his stare head-on. “So, you’re another Crawford.”
“Beauford… but yeah, technically, I’m half Crawford.” He says it like it’s a burden, like carrying half of Christian’s DNA is somehow a curse instead of a genetic lottery win.
“Ah, okay, family drama. Got it.”
I grew up with enough of my own, and I sure as hell don’t need to take on anyone else’s.
“Not really drama, but…” He releases a dry, humorless laugh. “My dad asked me to come all the way down here like it was important, and then he bailed to meet up with some woman.”
Okay, so that’s a dick move, but whatever. Maybe his kid was late, or maybe Christian’s the kind of guy who doesn’t let people down unless he has no other choice.
Ugh, or maybe some lucky woman is getting to ride that fine-ass man tonight, and it isn’t me.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Why do you need my name? You planning on heading back down here?” I try to keep my voice casual, maybe a little flirtatious, like I haven’t spent the last hour imagining what it would be like to climb his father like a tree.
“It’s not really my favorite place to visit,” he drawls, “but I could be tempted if the prettiest bartender in Rosewood Falls said she’d get a drink with me sometime.”