Page 8 of Rope Me In

I press my lips together but can’t help the chuckle that escapes. “Okay, that was the most city-girl thing you could have said.”

She scrunches her nose. It’s cute and reminds me of a bunny rabbit. “Is that a bad thing?” she asks.

“No, not a bad thing.” I grin. I didn’t know she was a city girl when I said it, but it was easy to guess, and now she’s confirmed it.

The woman tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear and takes a drag of the fancy pen. When she exhales, a puff of white dances from her glossy lips. The wind catches it, and I’m hit with a whiff of peppermint and herbs. “Sorry,” she offers, swatting the minty cloud like she can force it not to come toward me.

“It’s fine.” I take a drink from my flask. The whiskey burns as it goes down, hitting my empty stomach and reminding me I haven’t eaten since this morning. I should take care of that so I don’t end up making a fool of myself on the dance floor.

Without thinking, I hold the flask out to my new friend, if I can call her that.

She takes another puff of her weird stick thing and shakes her head. “I don’t think I should drink on the job, especially on my first day. I don’t want to get fired.”

I tip the flask back and take another small sip. Most of the people who work at Night Hawk wouldn’t have refused a drink—clearly this woman is not the usual type Jake hires. Mostly, my coworkers are locals or people who come stay asseasonal ranch hands and want some extra cash on the side. Come to think of it, they’re usually men, too.

I let my gaze drag over her ample body once more. She’s round and soft in lots of nice places. The Night Hawk T-shirt she wears lays mostly flat against her small chest, and her backside, as I’ve already established, is more than great. I can’t stop my mind from swirling and fantasizing a bit more, wondering what I’d discover under her cotton shirt. How her tits would feel in my palms.

When another cloud of peppermint hits my nose, I realize I’ve been staring at her chest. I clear my throat and connect with her chiding eyes.Busted.

I display my most charming smile, the one that’s always gotten me out of trouble or into women’s pants. “You don’t have to worry about getting fired. Jake isn’t that kind of boss. Things are relaxed around here.”

She nods, holding the inhaler stick in one hand while she tugs at the short sleeves of her shirt.

I raise an eyebrow at her. “Are you cold?” She can’t be cold. It’s hotter and muggier than Satan’s armpit for an October evening.

Those already pink cheeks of hers turn the colors of strawberries as she stops tugging. “I was thinking I should’ve worn a wig or something and a long-sleeve shirt.”

“Why?”

She nibbles at her bottom lip, her shoulders curving in and chin dipping like she said too much and she’s trying to pull into herself. “Just thinking about an earlier conversation with Jake. I’m going to stand out.”

While her hair and tattoos suit her, she’s right about that. But she’ll also bring in some good tips. The men around here like when we get someone new. When you live in a small town, you either get mixed up in the drama of dating someone’s daughter or relative or you have to go out and catch a city girl and hope shedoesn’t leave you high and dry when she figures out marrying a cowboy isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

I kick some dirt near my feet and exhale a small chuckle. “Trust me. If you wore a wig and a long-sleeve shirt, you’d stand out even more. Nobody wears long sleeves to a bar, at least not in this town. It gets hot with all the people dancing and drinking.”

The woman sighs then takes another drag from her pen. She holds the white cloud in for a long beat then, when I think she’s going to swallow it, she blows it out.

“Thanks for the advice—Kade, is it?”

The hairs on my arms stand up again when she says my name with that velvety inflection. “Have we met before, Sweetheart?”

The energy in the air between us goes taut, her shoulders squaring and body pulling tight like a bow string. Her lips part, fists clenching at her sides as she stares directly into my eyes with a hardened gaze. “I’m nobody’s sweetheart,” she snaps.

Her cold tone feels like a bucket of ice water was dumped over my head, and I hold my hands up in surrender. I know the sound of someone ready to deck me, and that was it. I stand to my full height, trying to present myself in the most non-threatening way—half smile, relaxed shoulders, warm eyes. “I meant no disrespect.” And I mean that. Women usually love when I call them pet names: sweetheart, baby, honey, you name it. But I guess not this woman.

For a few moments, we stand there, deadlocked. When I flash my teeth in a wider smile, she finally blinks, snapping out of whatever thought spiral she’s having. She inhales and exhales twice before she regains her bearings then puts her pen in her pocket.

“My name is Presley.”

“Like Elvis?”

Apparently that, too, was the wrong thing to say, because she cringes. “Just Presley,” she bites out. “No P, or Pres, or Lee. Presley is my name. Please only call me that.”

My eyebrows lift. This woman is a surprise. Normally, women don’t talk to me like this. Maybe my Momma or Gran, but that doesn’t count. Evidently, Presley has a spark underneath her awkwardness. It’s one that needs to be lit, but I see it there.

“Jake and your brother told me your name,” she says. “So no, we don’t know each other, but we’re going to be working together. Let’s put whatever that was behind us, yeah?” She holds out her hand for me to shake—which was the last thing I expected her to do—but she does it in a funny way, as if she doesn’t want me to shake it. Her arm is sort of hanging there limply, fingers slightly curled toward her palm.

I study her hand, nails painted dark purple to match the ends of her hair, then meet her questioning eyes again. This city girl is strange, a woman who, without a doubt, has a story to tell. Presley. I like her name. And whether it has anything to do with Elvis or not, the uncommon name suits her.

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