Page 69 of Rope Me In

I pull back from Kade at the deep, mocking male voice, and he jolts at the jerky movement. The hairs on the back of my neckstand on end, the turkey sandwich I ate earlier threatening to make a reappearance.

I clench my fists at my sides, anxiety licking at the base of my neck like hot flames as I stare into the slate-gray eyes I’ve come to loathe. I guess Marié saw me yesterday after all.

Eff my life.

Though I’d rather run the other direction, I turn to face my ex-boyfriend. “What the hell are you doing here, Derek?”

He smirks, the kind of slimy grin that makes my skin crawl as if it’s covered in a thousand spiders. “I’ve come to talk to you, P. We have business to discuss.”

Chapter 23

Kade

When I hear thename Derek, I think of some rich boy douchebag who takes his daddy’s car for joyrides or a guy who plays video games all day in his mom’s basement. Presley’s Derek paints a completely different picture, one I couldn’t fully see in the selfie on her phone.

He has dark-red hair and a tall, lanky body covered in tattoos, and he’s sporting a nose ring that I have the desire to yank out. He’s not ugly by any means, but he looks like someone who is very punchable.

Presley shifts nervously next to me, and I debate what to do. My immediate reaction is to step in front of her and tell this guy to fuck off. But from what I’ve learned about her in the short time I’ve known her, she doesn’t want to stand out, at least not in social situations.

Getting her to dance just now had been hard enough, especially since she’d been so worried about what Jake would think. At a regular job, she’d probably be right in her concern, but at Night Hawk, we don’t exactly run like a normal establishment. I’ve covered for Jake on plenty of occasions when he’s needed “breaks,” and he does the same for me. Now Presley is included in our little bar family—it’s just how things go in a small town.

I also saw the way she was looking at the women who’d been throwing themselves at me. It was part of the reason I asked her to dance. When I made eye contact with her from across theroom, I felt giddy at seeing the jealousy in her eyes. I had the overwhelming urge to run across the room and kiss her, to tell her that I’m not interested in any other women.

That thought had shocked me, punched me in the gut so hard I just about fell over. Before I met her, I would have never pictured myself in this situation, but here I am. I’ve been hit by Hurricane Presley, and my life is never going to be the same.

Presley crosses her arms over her chest. “There’s nothing to talk about, Derek,” she finally says in answer to his statement. “Please leave.”

Douchey Derek looks her up and down with a type of evaluation that screams critical judgment. The intensity of it has Presley shifting closer to me. I want to pull her into my body, but I know that wouldn’t help her right now.

The asshat turns his steely rat gaze on me, but his clear disapproval of me doesn’t bother me in the slightest. I’m used to looks like that from not only my own family but also from people I’ve grown up with my entire life. What does bother me, though, is the way his eyes narrow and his pointy shoulders straighten. How he turns up his nose as if he’s better than me.

“We have lots to talk about, Sweetheart.”

My throat burns, and my fists clench. How can a sweet nickname sound so disgusting coming from this man’s mouth? I understand even more now why Presley wasn’t into nicknames at first. But I will admit it makes my heart swell knowing she likesmynicknames, that she asked me to call her by them.

“No, Derek, we don’t.” Her anxious eyes dart around the room. Several people have stopped what they’re doing to watch this interaction. And while the band is still playing, and a few people have started to dance, the tension between the three of us is obvious.

This guy sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the sea of cowboy hats and Wranglers. His piercings, white T-shirt, leather jacket, and overly baggy pants scream for people to look at him. His tall height and smarmy face don’t help him, either.

Douchey Derek reaches out to grab Presley’s arm, and this time, I don’t stop myself from stepping in. My fingers wrap around his wrist before he can touch her, and I give a warning twist—not very hard but enough to sting.

“I don’t know where you were raised, but out here, we don’t touch a woman without asking.”

Derek yanks his arm back, and I let it go without a fight. I watch as he babies his wrist like I broke it. “Don’t touch me, you damn hillbilly. My hands are worth a lot of money.”

One of our regulars, Tim Corbin—who’s sitting at a table near us on the perimeter of the dance floor—hears Derek’s words and lets out a hoot of amusement. It’s enough to make me grin.

“You need help knocking this city boy out, Kade?” he asks.

I tip my hat at him as Derek scoffs out a sound of protest. “We’re good, Tim. Derek was just about to get in his car and go back to where he came from.”

“If any of you touch me, you’ll hear from my lawyers.”

Presley puts her hand on my back and applies gentle pressure. I move to the side so that she’s facing him, whoever this man is to her.

“What do you want, Derek? Tell me quickly, then please leave.” Her eyes dart around the room again, more frantic this time. She crosses her arms over her chest, and I watch as the woman who had just started to blossom begins to close up again. I don’t fucking like it.

“Marié said she saw a fat girl with purple hair and flower tattoos here last night. Not many people we know with that description. I had to come see for myself if it was true, if you were slumming it in the sticks.”

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