Page 19 of Rope Me In

I run my tongue against the back of my teeth, my curiosity about our new bartender growing. Questions swirl in my head, and there’s a part of me that wants to follow her into the back room and ask her why she bolted, how she felt about seeing me in the back room last night, if watching me turns her on. The questions are mostly inappropriate, but for the first time all day, I’m not thinking about my problems. I’m thinking about the mysterious city girl whose appearance begs me to look at her, yet her actions say otherwise.

“Who’s that purple girl?”

I snort. “That’s the best you can come up with?”

He shrugs and takes a sip of his beer. “Never seen hair like that.”

“That’s because you don’t come here on a Saturday night.” Which is true—Presley isn’t the first person to come in here with colored hair.

“Too many of you young’uns for me to come on a Saturday. Heard you had a line here last night.”

“You heard right.”

He grumbles something about times changing just as the back door opens and Presley walks back out. Jerry studies her again, his gruff expression not changing.

“Howdy,” I say. The greeting is silly, but working in a place like this, it’s all part of the charm—and hard to turn off when I’m within these walls. As I said, the people love the whole Texas cowboy act.

Presley shoves her hands into the pockets of the apron tied around her waist, fidgeting on her feet for a long second before her lips part.

“Hi,” she squeaks, her eyes bulging slightly from her clearly unintentional tone of voice before she looks down at her feet again.

I attempt not to laugh while I tuck the rag I was using in my back pocket, waiting for her to look at me. When she eventually does, those sexy sapphire eyes of hers are still unsure, but she manages to keep eye contact with me.

“Jake told me to find you. Said you’d know what to do with me.” As soon as the words leave her lips, the flush that had just started to dissipate returns in full force.

I clench my lips together, really trying hard not to laugh now. But hell, I’m not going to lie. Her simple words spark something in my low abdomen. I’m a twenty-two-year-old man, one who uses sex as a way to clear my mind, ease my pain. Girls have always come easy to me, just like ranching, reining, and drinking. This woman? While she might confuse me a bit, I sure as hell would know exactly what to do with her. What I could doforher.

My eyes drop down Presley’s body, lazily looking her over. The sound of her throat clearing has me meeting her now narrowed gaze. I flash her a flirty smile, one that tells her I’m not ashamed of looking. This only lights a fire in her eyes, just like the one she had last night when she caught me looking at her boobs and I called her Sweetheart.

She cocks an eyebrow at me, and my heart beats faster in my chest. I wonder what it would take to break down Presley’s walls, to crack her open and get her to let loose. To fan that flame I see behind her eyes right now. I can think of so many ways, many of which involve that velvety voice of hers crying out my name—

Fuck. I inhale a breath, willing myself to get it together. While being at work has never stopped me from pursuing a woman, I know better than to get involved with a coworker. Like I said, Presley isn’t my usual type, and I highly doubt she’d want anything to do with me, anyway, despite our little moment outside yesterday.

There’s a reason I have the reputation of Randall’s playboy, and I didn’t get that name by sitting on my hands. The first timeI had sex, I was fifteen, which isn’t uncommon here. Not much to do for fun in a small town, and our high school parties in farm fields often led to kids hooking up—or at least making out. Over the years, my experience grew, and eventually, I got into the kink community online, with rope bondage in particular catching my interest. That led me to taking drives into the city and getting some hands-on experience in clubs after I turned eighteen.

The way Presley fidgets and avoids eye contact reminds me of some women I used to play with when I first started out, ones who take time to unfurl and need a safe place to explore. In the last two years, minus one woman before my accident, I’ve only hooked up with women who sought me out. These were women I knew could handle my rougher tastes and didn’t need to be coddled, didn’t ask to exchange phone numbers after, and didn’t want to date.

“Kade?” My name on her lips cuts through my thoughts. Jesus, now who’s the one staring awkwardly? I need to stay cool, if for no other reason than to simply not look like an idiot. I lessen my smile so it’s more friendly and lesslet me tie you up, darlin’and motion for her to follow me. It takes us only a few steps to reach our destination.

“You can set up shop here for a bit,” I say, showing her the station I use to slice all of our citrus and refill things like cherries. “It’s pretty slow right now, so it’s a good time to cut and refill everything we need for drinks.” I pick up a lime and toss it in the air before placing it on the counter.

Her eyes watch the action and widen like saucers, her cheeks flaming pink again as if it’s their natural color. At first, I have no idea why a lime is causing her to react this way, but then I remember Gavin saying something about limes when he walked into the back room last night.

I can’t help the small chuckle that leaves my lips. While I should feel bad, the situationiskind of funny. It’s also good she understands what kind of man I am. Maybe she will keep herdistance, and then I won’t have such a hard time trying not to think about all the ways I could make her come undone.

I tap my fingers on the bar. “Think you can handle it?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

I nod and step back so she can take my spot at the station. “Great. We should be getting busier in the next half hour or so. On Sundays, it’s mostly locals who come around, trying to take the edge off before another long week. We offer half-priced bull rides, and tonight, we have a band coming. They should be here any minute.”

Her breath catches in her throat, and a look of panic flashes through her eyes.

“Have something against live music?”

“No.” She shakes her head but then asks, “What band?” There’s a slight quiver to her voice when she says it, and my hackles rise. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone get nervous over talk of a band, which adds to my confusion and curiosity about this woman. It has me feeling like I should comfort her, but given our interactions so far, I doubt she’d like that. And I definitely don’t need to get involved in her life—that would only complicate things.

“Just some band from a town over,” I answer. “He’s a friend of Jake’s. I should say it’s more one guy with his guitar and his friend, a fiddle player who sometimes plays the banjo.”

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