Chapter Five
Harlow
"Here." I drop a Coke on the bar in front of Wade, who is posted up at the end of it in a faded flannel and jeans…
just like he has been every day for the last week straight.
It's annoying as hell. He doesn't even have to say anything for me to know he's there.
It's like my eyes pick him out as soon as his fine ass strolls through the doors.
It's driving me nuts.
Most nights, he just watches me. And unlike when Danny does it, my skin doesn't crawl. It hums with this energy that makes me want to scream.
This man is slowly unraveling me at the seams, and I don't think he's even trying. He's just…quietly showing up. No one bothers me with him planted at the bar. It's like they all know that he'll crack skulls and break faces if they try.
I'm irrational enough to be a little bit mad about that, too. Why does it take another man to make men behave themselves? Infuriating!
"Thanks, beautiful," he says, grinning up at me.
"I'd offer you a beer, but…"
"Don't need one," he says, the same way he has every other night. I think he may be the only sober cowboy in the bar. He never drinks while he's here. He just…watches.
What does he want?
"What does Morgan have on you?" I decide to ask, propping a hip against the bar, a towel in one hand.
"What?" His brows furrow.
"What does Morgan have on you?" I repeat. "I mean, whatever it is must be juicy. You're here for seven to eight hours a night, without pay, and I know cowboys are up at the ass crack of dawn, doing cowboy things. So…what does she have on you?"
His lips twitch. "Cowboy things?"
"Riding stuff. Wrangling stuff. Branding stuff." I tick each item off on my fingers. "Destroying stuff. Catching stuff. General mayhem and anarchy. Cowboy stuff," I repeat.
A deep chuckle rolls from his lips. "So, now we're anarchists, huh?"
I sweep a pointed gaze around the bar. Like usual, it's loud as hell, the smell of sweat, dust, and leather damn near as strong as the alcohol.
Until him, I didn't think such a thing as a quiet cowboy even existed.
They're rowdy, disorderly, and there's not a filter to be found in the whole lot.
"Y'all might be God-fearing men, but we both know damn well you cowboys also put the fear of God into men. So yeah, mayhem and anarchy," I repeat.
He throws his head back, his loud laugh echoing this time. "I guess that about sums it up, baby."
"You going to answer my question?"
"She doesn't have anything on me," he says, meeting my gaze. I swear, I could get lost in his warm brown eyes. There's something so damn soft and safe in them. "I lost a bet."
I blink, not sure I heard him correctly. "Come again?"
"Would love to," he mutters under his breath. At least, I think that's what he says, but then he grins at me, and I get stuck on stupid. I swear to God, that smile should come with a warning label. "I said, I lost a bet. Well, it's more like she swindled me."
"So…you're here because you lost a bet?"
He grimaces. "That sounds a lot more fucked up than it is. I'm here because I choose to be here, but she asked me to come originally because of the bet. Make sense?"
"What was the bet?"
"She bet me that she could outdrink me. If she won, I owed her a favor."
A slow, amused smile stretches across my face, my gaze flicking up and down his giant body. He's at least a foot taller than she is, and probably has a good hundred pounds on her. "Morgan outdrank you?"
"Hell yeah, she did." He chuckles, completely unashamed. "The girl drinks like a pirate. I'm just a fuc…just a cowboy. She's a professional."
I laugh, truly delighted. "Good for her," I say, amused as hell. I would have loved to see his face when he realized he was losing that bet.
A cowboy in a dented Stetson steps up beside Wade, politely requesting another beer. He nods at Wade, but barely even glances at me, instead keeping his dark eyes firmly on the bar.
I sigh heavily, turning to get what he wants.
"Thanks, Harlow," he murmurs, leaving a wad of cash on the bar before he hurries away.
I tuck it into the register before turning back to Wade, who hasn't taken his eyes off me the entire time.
"How do you know Morgan?" he asks after a moment.
"We met in town."
He cocks his head to the side, studying me. "Why haven't I ever seen you around town before?"
"Maybe because I just moved?" Mom and I lived in Midnight Falls until I was thirteen, but eventually, the drive back and forth to Houston to see the specialists got to be too much for her, so we packed up and moved.
I wanted to stay after she passed, but…well, there's only so much you can do in a city like Houston.
"How come?"
"Houston is an expensive city," I mutter, avoiding his gaze. "And since my art doesn't pay the bills yet…" I just shrug, not really interested in telling this man my whole sad story, not tonight.
"Are you a sculptor like your mom?" he asks.
I startle, nearly dropping the towel. "What?"
"Your mom was Lynnie Spencer, right? The sculptor?"
"I…yeah." I clear my throat. "Yeah, that's my mom."
His expression softens, his hand landing on top of mine on the bar. His fingers are rough and calloused, but gentle. "I'm sorry you lost her, Harlow."
For a minute, I feel like I can't breathe. There's a lump the size of Texas in my throat, and I can't swallow past it, either. And then he squeezes my fingers. That simple act steadies me, allowing me to pull in a deep breath.
"Thank you," I whisper, trying to pull myself together. Shocked he knows enough about me to know who my mom is or that she died. Just…completely off-balanced by this cowboy.
"What kind of art do you do?"
"Drawing and painting," I whisper.
His lips curve into another of those charming smiles. "Yeah? You going to draw something for me?"
I'm not really surprised by the request. Most people ask when they find out that I draw.
I usually turn them down, simply because people devalue art and artists far too much.
They would never work for free, but they expect artists to do it, and that annoys me.
But I hesitate this time, simply because I've been itching to draw him since I saw him standing beside Danny last week.
I'm desperate to capture the softness in his eyes, and the way his lips curve when he's amused.
"Maybe," I say.
The way he smiles at me has my heart ready to beat out of my chest. And I know damn well that isn't a good thing.
"I, uh, I should get back to work," I mutter, taking a quick step back.
His hand falls from on top of mine, landing flat against the bar. He leaves it there, his fingers touching mine, his eyes locked with mine.
"You do that, beautiful," he practically purrs. "I'll be right here."
I gulp, spinning away to find something—anything—to do.
Midway through my shift the next night, I place a sheet of paper on the bar in front of him, face down.
"What's this?" he asks, glancing from it to me.
"You asked me to draw something for you last night." I shrug nervously. "I had a few minutes."
His eyes light up before he even flips it over, and then they widen. One thick, calloused finger traces the charcoal lines. They aren't great. There's only so much you can do in a bar when you're constantly being interrupted. But…it's not a bad likeness, either.
I didn't quite capture the softness of his eyes, but it's a half-decent first attempt. He's seated right where he is now, staring off into the distance, his face in profile, his hat pulled low. He looks rugged and beautiful at the same time, just like he does sitting there every night.
"Goddamn, baby," he whispers, shock and awe in his voice. "You just did this?"
"I mean, it took a little while," I grumble. "Cowboys drink a lot, but…yeah."
"It's incredible."
"It's okay."
He glances up from the drawing, meeting my gaze. "No, Harlow. It's incredible."
I swallow hard, my heart hammering again. "Thank you."
"Can I keep it?"
I hesitate and then nod. "But you aren't allowed to sell it, okay?"
"Sell it?" He cocks a brow like that's an absurd ask. "Baby, I'm framing this."
My heart flutters. "It's not that great, Wade."
"Yes, it is." He narrows his eyes at me. "Don't deny your talent."
"I'm not," I protest. "I just didn't have much time, so I know it could be better. That's all."
"Why are you working here instead of doing this every day?" he asks, holding up the drawing.
"You ever tried to make a living off art?
" I quirk a brow at him, crossing my arms. "It's not easy, and bills don't wait for a piece to sell.
" Especially when you have as many as I do.
My mom's care wasn't cheap. I'll be on my deathbed before I finish paying off all the loans I had to take out to ensure she had more than the bare minimum insurance provided.
He frowns and then nods, tucking the drawing in his pocket. "When are you off?"
"Tomorrow. The bar's closed. Why?"
"I want you to go somewhere with me."
My heart thuds unevenly. "I don't date men who drink at my bar, Wade."
He just grins at me, nodding toward his usual Coke. "Then it's a good thing I haven't been drinking in your bar, isn't it, beautiful?"
"Wade…"
"Go out with me," he says again, his voice pitched low, something intense in his gaze. "Just once, Harlow. I promise you won't regret it."
That isn't the problem, not even close. It's the exact opposite. I know I won't regret saying yes to him, and that's a problem. His life is on the ranch. Mine is…well, I'm still figuring mine out.
I've spent the last year just trying to keep it together.
Now, I'm back here, and I'm still not keeping it together, let alone making any progress.
He's got it all figured out already. He knows who he is and what he wants.
Me? I'm twenty-six and still in survival mode, just like I have been for most of my life.
"That's not a good idea," I whisper, unable to hide the regret in my voice.
"Yeah, it is," he says just as softly. "And that's what scares you, isn't it?"
"I…"
He leans across the bar suddenly, brushing his lips across my cheek. "You're allowed to want me, beautiful," he murmurs, his voice a deep scrap of sound against my skin before he drops back down onto his stool like he never moved at all.
I just stare at him with wide eyes, not sure what to say to that. Not sure how he has me figured out so well already. And not entirely sure I hate it, either.