Page 21 of Rope Me In

“Yes.”

I step out of her way again, realizing I’m not going to get anything else from her. She takes her place back at the board, and I hand her the knife with the handle down. When she reaches for it, our skin touches. I don’t miss the way her breath hitches at our nearness like it did yesterday when I stupidly wanted to kiss her.

Eyes penetrating into mine, Presley’s fingers linger. Everything about this moment makes me feel as if she’s trying to see something in my eyes, trying to read me like I’ve been trying to read her. The thought has a tilted grin pulling at the corner of my lips, and for whatever reason, that snaps her out of whatever she’s thinking.

Her fingers brush over mine once more as they go for the knife. When they do, I notice her fingertips are calloused, the texture of them interesting. I look down at her left hand, but she pulls the knife away, trying to put distance between us. That isn’t easy, since I’d have to move away for that to happen.

“Thanks, I’ve got it from here,” she snaps.

“You want to try it once—”

“I got it,” she says again, defiancein her tone.

“Presley.” My voice is quieter, not wanting to draw attention to us. More people have started to come in, and Stu is now at the bar helping customers. “Are you okay?”

She places the knife down, refusing to meet my eyes. “I have to use the restroom.”

Before I can blink, she makes a swift exit, and I’m left to wonder what happened. Was it because we touched? Or was it because of our previous interactions?

“Women, am I right?”

I turn my head toward Jerry, who’s sipping his beer with a funny look on his face. “You need another one?” I ask, not wanting to get into a conversation about Presley, or any woman for that matter, with him. The man is twice divorced. It was all the town could talk about for a while. I don’t think anything he says could help me out.

He looks at the bottle then at me. “Why the hell not?”

Chapter 8

Presley

I splash some coolwater on my face, wishing it was colder to help calm the burning of my cheeks. My body is still feeling the effects of Kade staring at me as I walked off. I probably shouldn’t have left like that, but the moment our hands touched, my anxiety crept in. I had to leave before I cried or yelled at him.

I wipe my hands off with some paper towels and look at my calloused left fingers. I know he felt them when I took the knife back, and I don’t know why it set me off. They could easily be from working outside, but my mind went straight to “he knows you play fiddle!”—which is silly. And at the end of the day, would it really matter if anyone knew I played? The worst that could happen is maybe they’d ask me to perform for them.

But if I’m honest with myself, I know that’s not why I freaked out.

While my interactions with Kade have been less than desirable, including but not limited to him calling me “woman” just now, I can’t help but be attracted to the cowboy. When I’m around him, I feel as if my body has a mind of its own. He pulls me in like a moth to a flame, making my belly flip-flop and my skin tingle—a feeling I haven’t felt since I met Derek. Or maybe ever.

I huff out a long breath. Figures this feeling would come now, at the most inopportune time, from a man who’s younger than me and very much a playboy. That fact is obvious to me not onlyfrom his behavior in the back room last night but also from the gossip I heard while working the bar yesterday.

The biggest topic was Kade’s return to Night Hawk. I heard something about an accident, but mostly, they spoke of his penchant for drinking and women. I was too busy to think much of it at the time, but now Jake’s comment about him chasing after the bachelorette parties makes a lot more sense.

All this to say I have no business feeling any type of way about Kade. I moved to this town to get away from red flags, not move toward them. I just have to remind myself of that when he’s around.

With a deep inhale, I check my appearance, glad I don’t look the way I feel on the inside. My skin is a little red and dewy from the heat and the water, but otherwise, I look like me. Wavy, dyed blonde-and-purple hair, black mascara and eyeliner, pink-tinted moisturizer for my lips, small tits, big hips, and clothes that cover all my rolls. Just a woman. Nothing special.

After that great pep talk, I walk back out to the bar. It’s gotten busier in the few minutes I’ve been collecting myself. Kade is serving a new group while Stu pours some shots for a couple of women who look like they’re from the city. Even though this is my second shift, I’m learning how easy it is to tell. The locals are dressed more casually with worn hats and boots, their skin tanned or sunburnt from working outside. The “city folk” are dressed as if they’re trying to fit in. Their hats and boots are brand new, and their clothes appear fresh off the rack.

I walk over to the bar and take my position back at the cutting board. I don’t know if I should still be doing this now that it’s gotten busier, but I’m not going to ask Kade. So I get to work and cut the limes and lemons, using the technique he showed me until all of the containers are filled. I hate to admit it, but I’m glad Kade taught me this skill, or it would’ve taken me a lot longer.

“You cut those like apro.”

I look to my side to see Jake. He’s got on his Night Hawk uniform and his red cowboy hat, which I’ve learned is a signature of his.

Kade appears behind Jake and slaps him on the back. “Showed her what you taught me.”

“Ah, the old slit trick.” He grins.

Kade snorts. “Please don’t call it that.”

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