12. Campbell #2
“I am my own breadwinner, Dad,” I say, my voice steady and lethal as I grip the edge of the car door. “I’m perfectly happy with the tax bracket I’m in. I don’t need anyone to provide a future for me.”
My dad checks his watch, completely ignoring the bite in my tone. “We have a flight to catch back to Nashville, honey, so I have to go. Just promise me you’ll think about what I said.”
My brow creases, wondering if he means Jake or my job.
“We could really use you at the firm.”
And . . . that clears that up.
“Safe flight.” I slam the door shut.
I stand on the scorching asphalt as the SUV pulls away and eventually disappears down the road.
Even though I stood my ground, I register the hollow ache opening in my chest. No matter what I achieve, no matter how independent I am, I always end up feeling diminished after spending time with my father.
Hours later, the sun has finally dipped below the horizon, taking the worst of the daytime heat with it.
I stand in front of my closet for twenty minutes before deciding to shed my corporate skin. At first, I wasn’t going to go. Then, I made the decision that if I land on the right outfit, I’ll consider it. And finally, I put my boots on.
If I am going to Earl’s, I am going to fit in. I trade my slacks and blazers for a pair of short denim cut-offs, a breezy white cotton top that leaves my shoulders bare, and my favorite worn-in cowboy boots.
When I push open the heavy wooden door to Earl’s, the thick scent of smoked barbecue and beer on tap hits me. As I step inside, a few low, appreciative whistles sound from a table near the jukebox. I ignore them, but a small smile tugs at my lips anyway.
I make my way toward the back of the bar, where a massive horseshoe of tables has been pushed together. It’s Mavericks territory.
“Look who made it!” one of the players calls out.
Before I can even slide into an empty seat, a basket of piping hot, glistening Buffalo wings slides across the table, stopping right in front of me. I look up to see Jake sitting directly across the gap, a lazy, welcoming grin on his face.
“Eat up. You’re gonna need the energy,” he says, his eyes tracking the bare skin of my shoulders before locking onto my face.
As I settle in, I notice a sudden, awkward shift in the atmosphere.
The rowdy, boisterous conversation that had been echoing from the table completely dies down.
A few of the guys cough into their hands, looking very interested in their beer bottles, and avoiding all eye contact with me.
They’re hushing up what they were talking about before I arrived.
I roll my eyes playfully, leaning my elbows on the table.
“Oh, come on, guys. Don’t do that. What were you talking about? Don’t worry about offending me. Trust me, I can handle it.”
The guys exchange glances until Jayden, one of our rising stars, clears his throat. “All right, well . . . we were having a debate.”
He scans the faces of his teammates, I think hoping someone else will jump in and help him. They all seem happy to let him take this on solo, though.
“We were trying to figure out if a woman actually likes having her hair pulled during . . . you know. Intimate moments.”
I choke on a laugh, completely caught off guard. The table erupts into a chaotic debate right in front of me, the guys throwing out differing opinions with absolute sincerity. Finally, Jayden turns to me, pointing a carrot stick in my direction.
“All right, Campbell. You get to settle the score. What’s the verdict? From a woman’s perspective. Hair pulling . . . thumbs up? Or . . .”
Jayden tips his thumb down.
I click my tongue, shaking my head with a grin.
“Honestly? I don’t know. I think it seems ridiculous. If someone did that to me in real life, I would just laugh.”
Jake doesn’t say a word, but across the table, his eyes darken, holding my gaze with a sudden, intense heat that makes my breath catch in my throat.
Right on cue, an upbeat country song blasts through the bar’s sound system.
It’s the perfect tempo for dancing, and my pulse races in anticipation.
Jake slides out of his seat without a word, walking around the perimeter of the table until he’s standing right next to me.
He extends a hand, his chin tilting toward the crowded hardwood dance floor.
“Come on,” he coaxes, his voice a low rumble over the music. “Let’s see if you remember how.”
I hesitate for a split second, looking at his hand before sliding mine into it.
He pulls me up, and I let him lead me into the middle of the room.
Couples swirl around us, boots stomping to the beat.
Jake swings me out then back into his frame, and suddenly we’re off.
My feet seem to know what to do, and the more people who head out to join us, the tighter our circle becomes.
“I’m not melting, I hope you know. This whole masculine country dance gimmick might work wonders on other girls, but I’m simply enjoying a nice dance without tripping over my own feet. Nothing more.” It’s a bold-faced lie, but I don’t think I’m sweating, so I’m pretty sure he can’t tell.
“Well, I’m glad I was able to add to your cardio routine,” he jests, coaxing me outward a few steps before spinning me under his arm one way then the other.
When he pulls me back into his arms, we’re closer.
Our steps still in sync because, yes, he is a strong lead.
But also, there’s a rhythm happening. I don’t like it, but at the same time . . . I like it very much.
“Hmm, I don’t know if my heart rate is up enough to count this as a workout,” I say, yet one more lie in a string of the ones I’ve told.
“Oh, I see,” he says, his head falling back with a playful chuckle. His arms stiffen in a frame that holds me back from him a few extra inches, forcing my gaze on his. “If you wanted me to get your heart rate up, all you had to do was ask. I can accommodate that.”
His smug grin is annoying. I shake my head, then glance to the side.
“Pfft, I’m good. Thanks.”
“I’m not going to sleep with you,” he says, and my attention jerks right back to him. That’s not his line to say. My mouth hangs open but before I speak, he continues.
“Don’t get me wrong, I would enjoy the hell out of that. All I’m saying is I don’t need to get you in my bed just to get your pulse racing.” His devilish smirk lingers, and as much as I want to peel my eyes away from him again, I’m intrigued.
“What, are you going to put me through one of your workouts?” I challenge, pausing my steps and forcing him to do the same.
Couples whirl around us on the dance floor, and he drops his hands into his pockets and pushes his tongue to the side of his cheek, glancing to his right before tilting his head and lifting his gaze back to mine with a challenge in his expression.
“I bet you like a good hair pulling,” he says with a nod toward my locks of hair layered over my bare shoulder.
I huff out a breathy laugh.
“Nobody likes having their hair pulled in real life. It’s . . . I don’t know. Cheesy,” I say, giggling at the visual in my head. It all sounds very grade school playground to me. Like I’m in braids, and he’s teasing me to show he likes me.
“Wanna bet?”
His head remains angled, his eyes boring into mine with this tantalizing pull that suddenly has my palms sweating.
“Pfft, I mean . . . I guess. What, next round is on the loser?”
He shrugs and steps toward me, closing the gap between us again.
“Sure. Next round is on the loser.”
And before I can offer to shake on the deal, Jake wraps my hair around his palm, pulling it tight into his fist, and I laugh at how childish and forced it feels .
. . until he pulls my head back just enough to give his tongue room to taste my throat.
Suddenly, nothing about this is funny at all.
It’s heated. It’s sensual. And despite the fact that we are in the middle of a bar, I’m overcome with thoughts of other places he can put his tongue.
The room is spinning, and I swallow hard, very aware of my pulse at this moment.
I won’t say it’s racing, but it’s definitely making itself present.
My heart is pumping full-blooded thunder against my chest. Jake relaxes his grip on my hair, his fingertips massaging the back of my skull for a moment before slipping down the back of my neck.
His fingers weave through my hair playfully as his eyes flit from my gaze to my mouth and back again.
“I’ll take that drink now,” he says, stepping away from me and leaving me hot, bothered, and with nothing more than the memory of his smug-ass grin on his way to the bar.