Page 34 of The Huntress and Her Hound

Ouch.

“Damn,” the woman laughs, shaking her head as she looks back to me. “You’re not my type.”

“I get that a lot,” I huff, drumming my knuckles on the counter.

She gives me a sympathetic smile. “It’s only because I swing the other way. I’m sure plenty of my straight—and even not so straight—friends would love you.”

“Yeah, maybe.” I eye Cher, leaning over on the bar as she speaks with a dark-headed, clearly wealthy patron. He’s grinning drunkenly at her, pointing to her chest.

And I start to think this was a mistake.

“Whatever you want, it’s on the house,” Cher’s friend says. “Those big puppy-dog eyes are killing me right now. I hate seeing honest rejection. Cher’s a tough case.”

“Yeah, she is.” I rip my eyes from Cher’s figure, spotting one of her bruises peeking out of the top of her skirt. “I’ll have a Kentucky Sunrise.”

“Interesting choice,” Her friend snorts. “But okay. Coming right up.”

I don’t even know my plan anymore and I mull it over as I wait for my drink. I was hoping Cher would not hate me enough to at least talk—maybe let me walk her home so we could talk about what happened with Sam Erickson.

“Cher’s staring at you,” a voice cuts in. “And I’m Sarah, by the way.”

I jerk my eyes from my hands, meeting a smirk and my drink. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, she is.” Sarah laughs, and then slips away, taking care of other customers. I glance over to Cher, sure enough, meeting those troubled ocean eyes. She immediately looks away and I smile to myself as I down my drink.

And a second.

And a third.

Make it four.

My head is buzzing by the time Cher has only fifteen minutes left, and I’ve spent the entire time at the bar, drinking and watching as the most fucking beautiful woman in world ignores me.

“Cut me off,” I tell Sarah as I hand her my card. She takes it with an unenthused shrug, and I eye my watch once more. As I the secondhand ticks by, a hand slides down my arm. I glance up, meeting an unfamiliar pair of deep brown eyes.

“You look miserable,” she says with a soft smile. “You’ve done nothing but sit at the bar for the last hour downing drinks like water.”

I laugh. “Well, we are in the desert.”

She raises a dark brow, peeking out from beneath her platinum blonde hair. In a loose fitting shimmery black dress, she offers a hand. “Dance?”

“I don’t really dance,” I mutter, and then look past the woman to see Cher, paying absolutely no attention to me. Raw rejection rips at my chest, and while I’m not the kind of guy to try and make someone jealous, I toy with the idea of getting up and dancing. Would she notice? Would she even care?

No, probably not. And that answer keeps me against the bar. Alcohol really is a depressant—and I don’t need any help with feeling depressed.

“We can just hang out then,” the woman offers a sweet smile, leaning against the bar with me. “I suck at dancing anyway.”

“That’s—”

“Not happening,” a sharp voice cuts in the conversation. “He has to walk me home and stay at my home.” Cher’s voice is ice cold, and I nearly laugh at how pissed she looks in the moment.

“Oh... Okay.” The blonde backs away, giving me a sympathetic look as she does. “Sorry. I didn’t know he was here with you.”

“Me either,” I say under my breath as Cher grabs my arm and rips me from the bar and toward the exit. I pull my arm from her, not liking this dynamic one bit. “What the hell are you doing?”

Cher offers nothing, tugging me into the elevator. I hate that I like the way it feels. As soon as we’re safely inside with the doors closed, she drops my hand and shoves me backward.

I burst into a fit of laughter, the booze hitting me all at once. “You’re a little feisty kitten, aren’t you?”

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