Page 26 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
Too strappy.
Too short.
Too silky.
But the right kind of cling—taunting—sexy, even.
I shouldn’t be looking.
But I am.
That’s why I notice she’s not alone.
A biker’s all over her. Too damn close to her backside. And the way his arms stretch over hers, guiding the cue stick like he’s gonna show her how it’s done.
Horse shit.
He’s not helping her shoot. He’s lining up his own play.
Something inside me shifts. Something I’ve kept buried for too many years to count. It pumps through me, reminding me, and shredding me up inside.
His mouth is close to her ear, beard rubbing her skin, lips moving—whispering something in her ear.
She laughs.
Too soft. Too familiar.
My chest tightens.
My jaw clenches.
I don’t like it. Not one damn bit.
I pivot, ready to bolt, but I slam straight into a wall of flannel and muscle.
Dean.
“Well, well, look who’s trying to escape like a damn raccoon caught in the pantry. You owe me a drink, remember?”
He rubs where I shocked him, then grabs me by the shoulders and shoves me backward through the doorway. I trip over the threshold, catch myself on the corner of a worn booth.
I glare at him.
“For fuck sakes, relax.” I try to regain my dignity. “Asshole.”
I straighten, roll my shoulders back, adjust my damn Stetson, and act like I wasn’t just bulldozed through the door like a drunken moose.
Not that anyone’s paying attention to me.
She sure as hell isn’t.
Fine by me.
I’ve had enough sideways glances and pretty lies to last me a lifetime.
But it’s impossible for me to ignore her when the pool tables sit dead center, right where all the action is, sprawled out beneath scuffed green lights.
“Don’t ‘for fucks sake’ me.” Dean’s hands brush the edge of his worn belt buckle before he hooks his fingers in his belt loops.“We finally get your sorry ass to Bucky’s, and you’re already ghosting?”
