Page 24 of Buckled in Barbwire

“I’m willing to bet on it,” another voice babbles.

“He’s alone.” As if that isn’t obvious.

“Won’t be for long.”

My jaw clenches as I glare straight ahead into the thick crowd. It’s easy enough to block out the curiosity while a loud buzz circulates around The Paddock. But then a similar conversation begins on my opposite side.

“From what I’ve heard, Brody hasn’t left the farmstead since the funeral.”

A willowy exhale steeped in pity follows. “Such a shame what happened to his mother.”

“Very tragic. At least the aneurism took her fast and she didn’t suffer.” A double dose of sympathetic sighs fills the short pause. “It sounds like Dennis is still in rough shape,” the first speaker adds.

The pit in my stomach—that I’d previously been ableto ignore—yawns with a sharp ache. What a considerate topic to discuss during happy hour. Damn gossips and their lack of boundaries. I’m not here for their entertainment, which is the reason I chose the most secluded seat in the joint. They’ve descended regardless.

Their incessant chatter burns at the walls I’ve built around myself. My mood is sour and getting fouler by the minute. If they’re trying to make me uncomfortable, I’ll gladly return the favor. The couple on my right freezes when I turn to face them. I flick the underside of my cowboy hat to give them a good look at what burns in my gaze. Their eyes bulge before quickly dropping.

Whatever response I might’ve shot at them fizzles when a commotion at the front door demands attention. The blonde bombshell strutting inside steals the spotlight. Victory tilts my lips into a rare smirk. I’ll have to thank Bianca for the accurate intel. She unknowingly gave me an advantage that I plan to exploit.

My gaze follows Paisley while she weaves into the sea of people like a strand that corrals the chaos. Everyone turns to greet her as she passes. It’s obvious she’s a regular, but she doesn’t blend in. Quite the opposite as her radiant energy glows in the dim dive bar.

Paisley’s smile is blinding, aimed at the swarm like a free dose of sunshine. I’m willing to bet her expression would shutter if pointed at me. But the desire to get that joy from her solidifies into a demand inside of me. I want to earn it. Tonight. Right now.

I rise from the corner spot that’s blanketed in shadows, snagging my drink to keep me company. Clusters of locals part in a rowdy wave as I stride across the packed space.Their murmurs chase me, but I don’t hear them. My riveted attention roams over Paisley with a hearty appetite.

She’s not wearing her cowgirl uniform for a change. Instead of jeans and an athletic top, there’s a denim dress showing off her curves. There’s plenty of bling stuck to the material, confirming that she sparkles on purpose. The hem stops at mid-thigh to expose smooth, toned legs. A rhinestone belt is snug around her waist, reflecting a blinding shimmer whenever she moves. Heavily tooled boots complete the outfit that’s been stamped into my fantasies.

Too damn much.

But her performance isn’t done. She twirls and the briefest tease of what’s hidden underneath taunts me. My fingers tighten around my bottle of Coors, imagining something much more supple filling my palm. I tilt the beer to my lips and polish off what’s left. The single gulp does little to soothe the fire in my throat.

Slack jaws and dumbfounded expressions are left in my dust when I approach the rail. Paisley is leaning over the counter and speaking to a bartender. The guy is ogling her tits instead of listening to what she’s saying. I toss my empty in the nearby trash, which redirects the dude’s leer. One glance at me has him rushing off to do his customer’s bidding. Maybe he’ll bring me a fresh one while he’s at it.

Once Paisley straightens and lowers her boots to the floor, I step behind her to make myself known. I bend until my mouth almost touches her ear. “Sure know how to make an entrance, Twinkles.”

Paisley whirls until our gazes collide. “Brody,” she gasps. “What’re you doing here?”

“Appreciating the decor.” I wave at the interior designthat resembles an old-fashioned saloon. Seems fitting since the place looks exactly the same in my fuzzy memories. “Maybe I’ll try my luck while I’m at it.” My arm arrows at a sign boasting their weekly meat raffle, which hangs above the pull tab station.

Just as predicted, the brightness in Paisley’s features fades slightly as she scrutinizes my random appearance. “The Paddock doesn’t seem like your vibe.”

“That’s presumptuous. I used to frequent this fine establishment several days a week.”

One skeptical brow curves upward. “Was that in the previous decade?”

“You wound me,” I deadpan. Not that I can completely discredit her assumption. “For the record, I won the Stuck on Bucky bull riding contest at least a dozen times. Most recently was two years ago. I came out of retirement for that one.”

Which I only agreed to compete in as a bet. My cousin is a cocky shit and needed to be taught a lesson. The bragging rights were well worth the unwanted attention. I lost count of the phone numbers and lewd suggestions stuffed into my pockets. It’s a shock I made it out in one piece.

It takes me a minute to realize Paisley is unusually quiet. She’s nibbling on her bottom lip while checking me out. A deep blush stains her cheeks when I catch her in the act.

“I was there that night,” she murmurs. “It was the first time I saw you.”

“And you’ve been madly in love with me ever since.”

Her laugh is loud and free. “You wish.”

“Sure would make our arrangement easier,” I drawl.

---