Page 9 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
Check.
Check. Check.
“So, we’renotexpecting Hart tonight, right?”
The way my sister says it, I just know.
My head snaps up. And sure as shit, there he is.
Hart Wilde.
Stumbling in late, chest out, and cocky as ever, scanning the room with those cold, calculating eyes, grumpier than a bear dragged out of hibernation.
Then they lock on me.
That scowl deepens, like he’s daring me to blink. I won’t look away. Not on God’s green earth. He’ll never intimidate me. And if he ever did, I’d never let it show.
He stalks down the aisle, each boot hitting the floor like a hammer strike.
Who does he think he is? No one’s fooled by that lazy stagger or his half-assed grin. And seriously, who wants a man with arms the size of tree trunks looming over them?
He stops at the end of our row.
Shit. No.
“Excuse me.” His voice is low, too deep, rough like gravel, and definitely not charming.
People shift, stand, and make room for the too-tall, too-wide cowboy who struts like he’s all that and a bag of potato chips.
“That seat taken?” He nods at the empty one on my far side.
I inhale through my nose and try to pretend like everything’s fine.
Everything isnotfine. There’s no way in hell he’s sitting next to me.
My sister cuts off my objective reply with a sweet, “I’ll scoot over.”
And before I can stop her, she’s climbing over my lap, the sweet, floral notes of her patchouli scent filling my nostrils.
And Hart plops down beside me, wearing a scowl sharp enough to cut glass.
The last time we were this close, I threw a drink in his face.
2: THE ART OF A COMEBACK
HART
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“YOU’RE LATE.” IF Jade Fox were any more smug, she’d float off her chair, orbiting on nothing but her own superiority.
And maybe her precious clipboard would break apart in the process.
“You didn’t say a damn word.” My growl is low and sharp.
She leans back with a smirk that looks custom-fit and tailored for this exact moment.
My pa taught me better than to call a woman names, but damn if a whole list of them don’t slam into my head.
