Page 85 of The Cowboy's Second Chance Bride

From where we sat, Cal and I had a sight line on each other at all times. He wanted to come up with a hand signal in case someone came to bother me, but I reminded him that I was more than capable. Just let one fool mess with me, and I would show him my heel strike.

Cal was easy to find in the crowd, taller than most and larger, too, like a clean-shaven lumberjack who carried whole tree trunks on his shoulders. He had that badass look like he’d gotten into the trenches when there were trenches to get into. Everyone else was split into two groups, either rich executives with flawless tans from having never shown up to work or dedicated workers with their pasty white skin from never leaving their desks.

Sometimes when Cal was talking to someone, he would look only at me. I could feel the heat from his gaze from across the room.

Word was getting out. Some of the women were casting me sideways glances as I sipped on my flute. A flutter of excitement tickled my stomach. We. Are. Married. Legit. For real. No takesie backsies.

There had never been one thing that felt righter than this. I adored him and felt adored by him, and as much as I hated his overwhelming need to protect me to the point of putting me into a bubble, there was no mistaking how safe I felt with him. Even with my heart. He was the love of my life. There had never been another. I was not scared of relocating. I was not scared about all the obstacles coming our way. And they were coming.

Together. That was how we would handle it.

“Can I get you a drink?”

The man asking was tall with shaggy blond hair cut in the style popular with teens. A broccoli cut, I thought it was called. Though he wasn’t a teen. He tossed his head to move the curly bangs out of his eyes, and it became clear why he sported the style. He thought the hair flick made him look… coquettish. Yep, that was the best word for it.

His bright white smile was large and full faced, only it didn’t reach his eyes, which had a predatory gleam. And no crinkles. Botox.

He held up his glass to remind me of his question.

“No, I have one. Thanks.” I held up my flute of champagne.

“You’re with Beckett, right?” Leaning on his elbow, he turned toward me, the position putting us eye to eye.

“I am.”

“You’re the matchmaker, right?”

His eyes scanned me up and down. He was a letch. He stopped at the large diamond on my finger.

The ring was not obnoxious by any measure, but it was stunning. Cal had said, “Oh, I have an accessory for you.” Then he’d slid the ring on to my finger and professed his love. He’d also borrowed a large pear-shaped diamond necklace that hung from a platinum chain, where it lay two inches from my cleavage. Which was where Blondie’s eyes were now fixed.

“I am a matchmaker. I don’t exactly know who the matchmaker is.” I snapped my fingers to draw his attention, and he dragged his eyes up.

“Think you could match a single guy like me?”

“Are you seriously looking?”

I knew he wasn’t, even if he didn’t know it. I knew his type better than they knew themselves. Trust-fund guy who’d slid into the family business, reaping the benefits without doing a lot of the work. I never took clients like him. Next, he was going to say something about how he was seriously looking now that he’d seen me and ask if I ever matched myself with clients.

“I wasn’t seriously looking until just now.” He winked. “How about a you and me match?”

If I had a fistful of money for every time that happened, I’d be able to retire. I’d have adopted a dozen kids by now. I put down my glass. I wasn’t going to be sticking around. I would find a new stool.

I gave Blondie my full attention. “That’s the best you’ve got?”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s the best pickup line you could come up with? I should hope not. I mean, I’m in the business of love. I have seen amazing declarations of love, grand gestures. You name it, I’ve seen it. I’ve seen people connect, and it wasn’t over some poorly thought-out pickup line. I mean, put some effort into it.”

“You don’t like a little flirting?”

“That’s not flirting. Flirting is mutual. That’s bothering someone, and it’s disrespectful. Plus, you knew I was married to Cal. You asked and looked at my ring. So propositioning me also speaks to how little respect you have for me and him and probably yourself.”

That got his attention. He placed his whiskey glass down with a bang and turned fully toward me. He tried to continue his casual appearance as he continued to lean against the bar, but his face had gone tight—or maybe that was the Botox—as had his shoulders.

“It’s never been a problem before.”

I rolled my eyes. “I seriously doubt that’s true. You asked me three questions and then hit on me. You didn’t introduce yourself. You didn’t give us a chance to get to know each other, to see if maybe there could be something between us.”

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