Page 85 of Tempting Wyatt
And that’s when I see Beau and Brett Mitchell out of the corner of my eye. Isaac’s best and worst friends. When we were kids, Beau failed fifth grade on purpose so they could all be in the same grade and terrorize the teachers as a trio. I think they’ve been banned from most other bars and maybe even from the local strip club a time or two.
Without a doubt, this is about to become a shit show if it doesn’t end quickly. Where those two go, trouble follows.
I’m a big enough dude to take these guys on my own, but I’m not a fighter. I’m a finisher. I grab Derek by the arms and toss his ass into the closest booth. I get a grip on Flannel-Shirt Guy when Beau decks his ass.
“I’ve got it,” I tell him, hoping he and Brett will back off.
They don’t.
The next two guys who come at me get knocked out cold in one punch because I don’t have time for this shit. I have a beautiful woman waiting for me.
Several others end up involved in the commotion, becoming a blur of bodies, until Mick O’Malley—the owner—whistles loud enough to pierce our adrenaline and testosterone-flooded brains. We freeze, and I take stock of the situation.
The blonde and Carly Rae are fawning over Isaac like he just returned from war. There’s barely a speck of blood on his lower lip.
Between me and the Mitchell brothers, Derek is a heap in the booth beside us, Flannel-Shirt Guy is bleeding profusely from the mouth, two dudes are barely regaining consciousness, and some random I didn’t know had joined the fray holds a broken pool stick I think he snapped over Brett’s or Beau’s head. They look mildly amused and uninjured—probably because this is a nightly occurrence for them. Matter of fact, they’re grinning like they’re having the time of their lives.
Fucking lunatics, all of them.
My right eye and the left side of my jaw throb like they’ve developed their own heartbeats. My lip is split, my knuckles are bloody, and I might’ve fucked up my shoulder, tossing Derek’s overweight ass.
It’s the same one I tore playing high school baseball. Awesome.
Turning, I see Archie Bennett—a sheriff’s deputy—coming over to see if anyone wants to press charges. Behind him, still at the bar where I left her, Ivy stands, wide-eyed.
I can’t tell if she’s pissed, repulsed, or impressed.
Once Archie says we’re free to go, and he does meango—as in get the hell out of here, pronto, he clarifies—I make abeeline for her, and she hands me an amber bottle from Mick, who says it’s on the house.
“Thanks.” I take a swallow and taste blood mixed with my beer. “Tell me the truth. Is my face too ugly to sit on now?”
She smiles, but there’s pity in her gaze. “I think I’d be too worried about hurting you to fully enjoy it.”
“Damn.” My gaze lands on her pouty mouth. “For the record, I have an extremely high pain tolerance.”
“I noticed,” she says, nodding toward the damage we caused.
Mick leans over the bar between us before she can elaborate any further. “Who started it?”
I try to recall. “Isaac’s dick, I think.”
I reach into my wallet to give Mick some cash for repairs, but he waves me off.
Sure enough, we watch Isaac head toward the front exit with a woman on each arm.
Mick shakes his head. “Ah, to be young again.”
The other bartender, Brooklyn Harris, who I didn’t realize was of age to tend bar yet, steps over and hands Ivy a sandwich bag of ice wrapped in a bar towel. She holds it to my jaw.
I refuse to flinch, even though the shit stings. I see the blood on it when she moves it slightly.
Her eyes meet mine, and words escape without my permission.
“Fuck, you’re so damn beautiful.”
Her cheeks turn a sweet shade of pink. “I think you’ve taken too many hits to the head, rancher.”
I shake off the ice and grip her wrist, pulling her to me. “I was planning to take you back to my place and spend all night rewarding you for being the best ranch hand ever.”
