Page 40 of Riding the Storm
“Don’t let any wannabe cowgirls hold you up this time.”
She releases me and turns her focus back to her sisters. I chuckle to myself as I go to fetch the thirsty girl her drink.
Ishouldn’t be watching him.
But hell if I can stop myself.
He’s at the bar—those broad shoulders easy to spot—leaning one arm against the counter, talking to one of the female bartenders. I notice a small crowd is starting to form behind him. When the bartender walks off, he stands and glances back, noticing them.
One of the guys steps away from the others, shakes his hand, then pulls a phone from his back pocket, and Bryce puts his arm around him and smiles. That’s the first of a dozen pictures. Even though I see him glancing over his shoulder at the glasses the bartender set down, he keeps smiling for snap after snap, like he’s in no rush, like he owns the place. Like he knows the whole damn room is watching him.
A few minutes ago, he was watching me.
I can still feel it—the thrum under my skin, the spark that ignited when I caught his eyes across the dance floor. The crowd was a blur, bodies moving, boots stomping, my sisters singing at the top of their lungs. And then there was him. Standing by our table with that unreadable look, stormy eyes locked on me.
I should’ve looked away.
God knows I should’ve.
Instead, I let the music flow through me and moved like I was dancing for him. Every sway, every spin, every flick of my hair. I could feel his gaze like a physical touch.
And for a minute, I pretended he was just a stranger in a bar because I liked it. Liked being seen. Liked that a man like him—big, strong, rough-edged, and built like sin—was looking at me.
Until he wasn’t.
Until he turned and walked away like it didn’t mean a damn thing.
Next time I spotted him, he was at the bar with some barely dressed girl, practically suctioned to his side. She looked like she’d stepped right off the cover ofCowgirls In StyleMagazine. Wearing shorts so short that they should be illegal. And she was touching him.
Her chest pressed against his arm. His tattooed arm.
My blood went hot.
I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t feel this. But, God help me, I wanted to march across this bar, grab him by that stupid leather chain around his neck, and drag him away from her before she got too comfortable.
Instead, I knocked back another shot of tequila.
I glance to the tray in the center of the table, and then I grab another and toss it back, too, for good measure.
The burn hits my throat and rushes to my head, warm and reckless.
“Easy there, sis,” Harleigh murmurs beside me. She leans in close, her breath smelling faintly of lime. “I hope you aren’t thinkin’ that drinking more alcohol is gonna make him less attractive. Because that little scheme is gonna backfire on you.”
I groan. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Harleigh grins. “Oh, I think I do. You’ve been staring holes through that man since we walked in. Hell, since supper. You might as well hang aReserved for Charlisign on his barstool.”
“Please,” I mutter as I open the bottle of water I took from him. “He’s just a pain-in-the-ass client.”
“Uh-huh,” she drawls. “A pain-in-the-ass client who jumped right to doing your bidding.”
“He’s just getting me a drink. He got Cabe and Caison drinks.”
She laughs as her eyes fall to the water bottle in my hand, the sound light and teasing, and I try to ignore her.
Bryce finally breaks free, and he and Cabe head back with our drinks.
“Oh my God!” Shelby squeals from across the table, nodding toward him as they approach. “Who do we have here? Don’t tell me. It’stheBryce Raintree, world-famous bull rider, gracing little ol’ us with his presence.”
