Page 38 of Riding the Storm
“What you need is to pace yourself,” Cabe grumbles.
Harleigh scowls at him. “When did you turn into a grumpy old man?”
“The minute you ordered tequila, and I realized that I’ll be doing morning chores alone tomorrow.”
She waves the comment off. “I’ll help. I party all the time and still make it to morning classes.”
“What?” Matty asks.
Harleigh’s eyes go to her older sister, and she gives her a sheepish look. “I said I always make it to class.”
The band takes the stage soon after—a local group called Wildhaven Junction—and they seem to know exactly how to get the crowd riled. The first chords of “Family Tradition” echo through the room, and they erupt. Drinks in the air, singing along at the top of their lungs. The women at our table included.
Next, they transition to “Country Girl (Shake It for Me),” and Matty’s the first one up, tugging Charli by the hand.
“Come on,” she says to the other two.
The crowd opens just enough for them to join in, their bodies falling easily into rhythm under the string lights hanging from the rafters.
“They’re disgustingly cute,” Caison says, shaking his head.
“You mean they’re a hot mess,” Cabe says, but his voice is laced with amusement.
He has the hot part right. Every man in the bar is watching the four of them as they shake their asses, just as the song requests.
I lean back in my stool, watching them, and then Charli’s eyes lock with mine. She holds my gaze across the crowd as she moves to the music, and the way her hips shifts suddenly feels deliberate. Controlled. Like every sway is meant for me.
Heat crawls up my neck and settles heavy in my chest.
I take a slow sip from my glass, pretending I’m relaxed, but my pulse is pounding. I can feel her, even from twenty feet away. The tequila flowing through her veins has made her bold. Her defenses lowering a little more with every shot. But the teasing glint in her eyes tells me she still knows exactly what she’s doing—daring me to come closer.
“Be careful, man,” Cabe says over the music.
My eyes slide to him. “Of what?”
“Of that.” He gestures to her twirling under the lights. “You’re playing with fire.”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“Sure you don’t,” he quips. “Just remember you’re here until the first of August, and if that goes sideways, it’ll be a hell of a long summer.”
I stand, turn my glass up, and empty it in one swallow. “You guys want another?”
“I’ll take a water,” Caison says.
“Me too,” Cabe chimes.
I leave them and make my way through the tables, headed to the bar.
I find an open space at the end and slide up to the smooth barn-wood top. A redhead in a leather tube top takes my order, and I hand her my credit card, making sure that she transfers the tab for our entire group to it.
“I’ll take the whiskey and waters, but can you have our server bring a round of tequila shots to our table, please?”
While I wait, I lean against the bar and take in my surroundings. The place is larger than it appears from the outside. The stage isn’t fancy, but it’s a good size. The dance floor takes up most of the room to theright of the bar. Clusters of tables in various shapes, heights, and sizes stand between it and the entrance. There are four pool tables to the left, and worn leather couches and dartboards are tucked in the back corner of the room, along with a dark hallway that I assume leads to the offices and perhaps the restrooms. A door behind the bar has wooden signage that saysPatio.
The place looks filled to capacity, and everyone’s having a good time. But I still clock the exits and map the shortest routes from our table to each—because if there’s one thing I’ve learned on the road, it’s that things can quickly go south in any situation where a large group of people and alcohol are involved.
A petite woman with shoulder-length black hair—wearing a pair of tiny denim shorts, a red tank top with a deep neckline, and black felt cowboy hat—sidles up beside me. “Hey, cowboy. I know you,” she says.
