Page 79 of Riding the Storm
That earns me a real laugh.
She clinks a shot glass against mine and downs it. “Oh, if only it were that easy.” She gestures for the bartender to pour us both another. “Good luck, cowgirl. The way he’s looking at you, you’re gonna need it.”
I toss the tequila back, the burn crawling down my throat. “Pssh, he’s the one that’s gonna need it.”
She looks past me, grin widening. “I hope you’re right. I’d love to see a cowgirl knock Bryce Raintree down a few pegs.”
She disappears onto the dance floor, and I walk back to the group with her words still rattling in my head.
Bryce Raintree, heartbreaker. No surprise there.
They’re still playing pool when I return.
Porter waves me over, handing me a cue. “You in?”
“Sure,” I say, smiling.
I bend over the table, lining up a shot, and I can feel Bryce’s gaze like a touch. When I glance up, he’s watching me from where he leans against the wall, drink in hand, eyes dark.
I sink a solid, chalk the cue, and bend again—maybe a little slower this time, maybe a little more deliberately. His jaw flexes.
Everyone’s watching, but only one set of eyes makes my skin heat.
The game goes on, laughter spilling over, and for a little while, I forget about everything except the music and the buzz in my veins.
Then Bryce disappears.
Ten minutes pass. Fifteen.
I tell myself I don’t care where he went, but after a while, curiosity gets the better of me.
I weave through the crowd, scanning faces, until I spot him in the far corner, dimly lit, talking to a woman. Her hand is on his arm, her face too close.
My stomach drops before logic catches up.
He could be doing anything—talking business, answering a question, hell, just being polite—but all I see is how he’s smiling down at her. It’s one of his real smiles.
I turn back toward the bar, my throat tight.
Another shot lands in front of me as Porter asks, “You okay, sweetheart?”
“Perfect,” I lie, tossing it back.
And another.
And another.
The edges blur. Porter talks me into trying the mechanical bull, and I’m just tipsy enough to agree.
I climb on, gripping the rope. The ride starts slow, and the cowboys gather around. They whoop and holler their encouragement as my body rocks with the machine. The next thing I know, the pace quickens as the bull twists and turns and jerks hard. I hit the mat, flat on my back, air whooshing out of me. Cheers erupt around me.
Porter’s there in a flash, offering his hand. “You all right?”
“That was awesome,” I gasp, still catching my breath.
He laughs, sets his hat on my head, and tugs me to my feet. “Now you’re a real cowgirl.”
Before I can say thanks, a shadow cuts through the lights.
