Page 9 of Rope Me In

I remove my hat and place my palm into hers so those curled fingers brush against the back of my hand. Her skin is warm against my palm—almost too warm, even a little sweaty from her nerves and the hot night.

As we shake, her eye contact wavers, her red cheeks getting redder the longer I hold her captive with my stare. It’s both sexy and sweet. Presley on the surface isn’t the type I usually go for—I tend to like women who aren’t shy—but I’ll admit she sparks my interest.

I’ve been with enough girls to know which ones are looking for more, though, and her vibes are screaming that she’s the relationship type. I am certainly not looking for a relationship. But despite all this, I like the outgoing rocker-chick vibe she’s giving off that’s in direct contrast to how she’s acted so far in front of me.

Now that I’m seeing her up close, her soulful eyes tell me she’s too good for me. The gentle lines on her face, the serious maturity lingering under the surface, and theinteraction we’ve just had all give me the impression she wouldn’t give me the time of day. She’s polite, but this will be a strictly professional relationship. Which, in the end, is what it should be. I don’t need to shit where I eat.

“Yeah,” I finally say, shaking her hand one more time before pulling back. I place my hat on my head then take a step toward the door. That step brings me and Presley closer, close enough that I can smell the peppermint on her breath.

Her breathing stops, and she looks up at me from her coal-colored lashes. I don’t miss the way those blue eyes flash to my lips, and for a second, I lean in. I’m not sure why I do it, maybe because I know I’ll never kiss her. But for this brief moment in time, I let myself imagine what it would be like. The way she’d unfold for me as I backed her against the wall and dove in to taste her like a starving man. I bet, once comfortable, Presley would bloom under my touch. Maybe even beg for it.

When all the blood in my body travels south, I know it’s time to end whatever it is I’m doing. I’m not thinking with my brain.

I step around her, leaving Presley standing there. When I turn my head over my shoulder, she’s still frozen in time, her eyes on where my lips were.

“See you inside,” I say under my breath before opening the door. It’s not until the back door closes that I finally inhale and decide it’s best to erase that interaction from my memory.

Chapter 4

Presley

Even with Jake’s warning,I wasn’t prepared for how busy Night Hawk gets on a Saturday night. The place is wall-to-wall bodies, and from what I’ve heard, a line has started outside. It’s the first time, apparently, and I guess one of the locals volunteered to be a bouncer for the night until Jake could figure out a solution for the future. It’s insane.

“Presley, can you run to the back and grab some more limes?” Gavin yells over the roar of the crowd and Garth Brooks singing “Friends in Low Places.” It’s so loud, my ears are ringing. Makes me wish I could wear earplugs. I’ve always been sensitive to loud noises, and as a musician, my hearing is everything.

“Yeah, sure,” I yell back to him. He gives me a smile that looks exactly like Kade’s, and my stomach does a little flip-flop. But unlike his younger brother, Gavin has been nothing but professional with me. Despite it being busy and loud, it’s been easy to shadow him, especially since he stopped the endless questions I had to answer at the beginning of the night from the locals. As soon as they started to arrive, the curious bunch sat at the bar and wouldn’t stop chatting my ear off.

Polly Carson, a bright-eyed and sweet girl, asked me twenty consecutive questions about my hair color. Then her boyfriend, Tim, a cute red-headed cowboy, asked me questions about my tattoos. It was around the thirtieth question that I really did wish I had worn a wig and a long-sleeve shirt. Probably seeingmy annoyance, Gavin made them leave the bar and go find a table. From then on, it’s been a complete blur of activity.

At seven, Kade started line-dancing lessons. The small dance floor near the bull swam with women in mostly white cowboy hats and painted-on jeans, including several bridal parties dressed like Jessica Simpson inThe Dukes of Hazzardcirca 2005.

After my interaction with him outside and our…I don’t even know what that was, I’ve tried to avoid looking his way. It’s hard, though, especially when I can hear his voice over the loudspeaker calling steps to the crowd and telling jokes. His voice is a strong baritone, not too deep and easy to listen to, like a warm hug on a cold afternoon. He’s encouraging to the dancers and definitely the flirt he demonstrated himself to be when we were outside.

When the song changes, and his “yeehaw” reaches my ears, I find the brim of his cowboy hat in the sea of women. He does some complicated move on the dance floor, spinning a girl out and back into his chest. My eyes follow the movement of his hand in hers, and my palm—the one that was against his earlier—tingles.

Before he came inside, I thought he was going to kiss me. Which is ridiculous. And not just because he’s handsome with his neck-length dusty-blond hair and tortured hazel eyes, but we’re going to be working together, and he’s six years younger than me—a fact I found out from a random local. Plus, I do not want to let any man get in the way of my life again. I let that happen with Derek right out of college and with the people who claimed to be “helping me” with my career. I’m not going to let my hormones make any decisions for me.

And did I mention the man is tortured?

If the way he stormed into the bar earlier, angry at his brother—plus the flask—isn’t a dead giveaway that he’s going through something, his sad, angsty eyes are. I know because I’ve looked in the mirror every day for the last six years and seen thesame sadness. But his look…I don’t know, it’s more defeated in a way that has me wanting to avoid his gaze. I feel like staring into his eyes will show me a scary reflection of the feeling I ran away to avoid—and the entire reason I came here was to start a new life.

There was also the part of our conversation where he called meSweetheart, which is an immediate no for me. That endearment burrows under my skin like a splinter. It’s one that Derek loved to use when he was being condescending, which was most of the time. But then Kade apologized, and I attempted to let it go. I reminded myself that despite his bad first impression, I don’t know him. If Jake judged me on my first impression, I’d be screwed—so I wasn’t going to judge Kade, either.

“Presley?”

My head swivels to Gavin, and I smile sheepishly. Speaking of bad impressions—he asked me to go get limes, and I haven’t moved.

“Limes, got it.” I think he chuckles, but I don’t linger, already embarrassed I was standing there like an idiot.

As I walk toward the back, the other bartender, Stu, smiles at me, and I give him a little wave. He’s been nice to me, too. Really nice. The thought makes my eye twitch because it’s funny how much that stands out to me, but it soothes the sadness I’ve felt inside for so long.

Apparently, people being nice without wanting anything in return is noteworthy now.

I release a long sigh as I enter the back room, stray peanut shells from the bar crunching beneath my feet. With my hands on my hips, I take a look around and wonder where the limes are. I see a door that leads to Jake’s office, a door to the alley, and a little table that we can sit at to take breaks as well as little cubbies for us to put our belongings in during our shift.

“Ah, yes!” I say to myself when I eye the rows of shelving with supplies, including bags of peanuts and pretzels, thinking they could be there.

I move through the rows, eyes scanning and hands searching, but I’m not having any luck finding them. I probably should’ve asked exactly where they were, but I thought they’d be easy to spot.

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