Page 168 of The Games We Play
“She did,” I said with a grin. “As soon as I sign those papers, I’m officially the owner of The Tequila Cowboy.”
Her whole face lit up. “Mac!” she squealed, grabbing my hands in hers. “That’s amazing!”
I slipped my hands from her grasp, placed the cigarette into the ashtray, and then hooked my arms around her waist. With a playful grunt, I lifted her and settled her on top of the bar. She let out a surprised giggle, looping her arms around my neck like it was second nature.
“Now,” I said, stepping between her legs and cupping her jaw with one hand, “I really have everything I could’ve ever wanted.”
I kissed her then, slow and deep, letting every word I hadn’t said fall into that kiss instead.
She kissed me back like she felt it, like she knew exactly what it meant.
I never thought of myself as a lucky man.
But with her in my arms, my name on the bar I’d built my dreams around, and a life that finally felt like mine…
I couldn’t imagine being anything but lucky.
The End
EPILOGUE
PENNY
“Your sense of style is awful,” I said, deadpan, as I yanked the thrifted Budweiser sign off the wall like it had personally offended me.
Mac turned around, all mock indignation and wounded pride. Hands on his hips, mouth already open to argue. “Excuse you, that is a work ofart.”
“It’s a work of something,” I muttered, tucking the frame under my arm, already making my way down the hall to the spare bedroom.
It took us two months to find a new home, which currently smelled faintly of paint and new beginnings. Mac moved into my apartment with me after his sister officially handed over the bar, and we spent a few chaotic weeks searching and arguing about backsplash tile, rug textures, and whether or not a vintage neon beer sign counted as “art.”
Spoiler: It didn’t.
Decorating with a man was not for the faint of heart. Especially not a man whose style leaned “college bar after last call.” Meanwhile, mine could only be described as “cozy Pinterest board with a personality.”
Still, somewhere between his chaos and my soft-girl aesthetic, we were finding a rhythm.
I was just shoving the sign into the corner of the closet when I felt him come up behind me. His arms wrapped around my waist, mouth grazing my neck in slow, strategic kisses.
“Mmm,” I sighed, letting my head fall back. “You’re not going to just kiss this decision out of me.”
“You sure about that?” he murmured, his tongue teasing along my skin, a lazy, devastating sweep that made my knees weak.
“Mac,” I warned, fighting a smile as his lips found the shell of my ear.
“I’ve learned a lot in the past few months,” he said, voice low. “For example, you’re a sucker for neck kisses… and books… and those lavender candles I pretend to hate but secretly like.”
“You’re very cocky for someone whose Budweiser art is about to die a lonely, dusty death in a closet.”
He pulled back just enough to grin at me, that damn dimple softening his smirk. “You love my hands, Pen. Let me make you love my taste, too.”
“Are we still talking about interior design?”
“Not even a little.”
I turned in his arms and kissed him before he could say anything else.
He kissed me back like he always did, with both hands, all in. Like he wasn’t just in this room, but in this life. With me. For good.
