On instinct I grab the arm of the person I crashed into. And then it hits me like a fully loaded freight train.
“Shit, Blair. Sorry.” I drop her arm, but make no move to step back despite being practically on top of her. Just shy of six-foot herself, she’s face-to-face with me. Close enough to kiss. And fuck me, do I consider going in for the kill. “We’ve gotta stop meeting like this.”
“Meeting like what? This is nothing like—” Her eyes flit to my loose arm, and she lets out an irritated sigh. “Why aren’t you wearing your sling?”
“I’m totally fine now.” I show off by lifting my arm to about ninety degrees. Scorching heat radiates out from my injury, but I grit my teeth, smiling as though there’s no discomfort.
“Besides, he can’t double-fist drinks with one arm,” Colt chides, brushing past us.
I raise an eyebrow at him. “Well, now…that sounds like a challenge.”
“Denver.” Blair stresses the fact that my name has two syllables. She tilts her head with a huff, giving me a look that elicits a mocking chorus out of the ranch hands, who then quickly shuffle away before getting swept up in her wrath.
With a smile, I say her name back in a horrific attempt at a valley girl accent. “Blair.”
If I thought she looked too preppy and polished for the rodeo, she’sreallypushing the boundaries here. Her black long-sleeve is so modest there’s nary a sliver of wrist or neckexposed, yet so tight it accentuates every gentle curve in her willowy, athletic build. High-waisted tan trousers. Andheels. Blair Hart doesn’t—didn’t—wear heels. Not even to prom. She doesn’t fit this town anymore, and there’s a jogged memory flitting by of her teenage wardrobe: jeans, faded T-shirts, and a collection of Stetsons every cowboy in town was envious of. Then she grew up and moved away and changed. And, despite the passing of a decade, it turns out I’m still as affected by her as the day she left me for good.
“It’s been a week. You should be wearing a sling. At the very least, try to keep your collarbone stable when you sit down—no double-fisting drinks. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I give her a salute, hoping to induce a smile.
Nothing.
“So, what are you doing here?” I ask.
A small crease forms between her eyebrows and she gestures to the small black server pouch tied around her waist. “What does it look like I’m doing? Helping Dave out because he hasn’t found a replacement for Cass yet.”
She starts sounding real similar to an adult in aPeanutscartoon as my tunnel vision narrows at a dizzying rate.
Afuckingring.
She’s wearing a ring.MyBlair is wearing a fucking massive rock on her goddamn left fucking hand. It’s too big for her slender fingers. Too showy for her personality. Too impractical for a nurse practitioner who probably wears latex gloves a lot of the time. But maybe the reason I feel every bruising beat of my heart is because at sixteen she promised that part of herself to me.
Afuckingring.
I scrunch my nose to calm the stinging sensation, and work to pull in a steadying breath.
None the wiser, she tucks her hands into the pockets of her fancy pants and turns to walk away. “Go sit down. I’ll bring over beer in a minute.”
I watch her go, telling myself I shouldn’t. It was stupid to think she hadn’t moved on after a decade away from this town. She’s perfect in every way—naturally, she found a wealthy man in the city to make all her dreams come true. To be the man I could never be.
“Come dance with me.” A rasping voice in my ear raises the hair on the back of my neck. Pointed fingernails drag up the goosebumped skin until Peyton’s plucking the hat from my head and placing it on hers. Evidently, that text meant fuck all.
“Can’t use my arm.” My focus remains entirely unbroken from the sight of Blair’s ass as she bends to clear a table.
She’s taken.
Just because there’s a goalie doesn’t mean you can’t score….
No.She’s not that type.
“You know what? Fuck it.” I turn to Peyton, eyeing up her skimpy, shimmery halter top. Even her cleavage is glittery. “Let’s dance.”
I let her guide me to the dance floor, wrapping my good arm around her waist as Randy Travis croons over the speaker. And I probably should’ve worn the sling, because by the end of that first half-assed two-step, my entire upper body is throbbing.
Peyton suddenly grows by about two inches, raising up on the balls of her feet, presumably for a kiss. But as much as I’m willing to dance with her, I have no interest in bringing her home tonight, no matter what the cowboy hat on her head implies. So I take a large step back, dropping my touch from her waist.
“I need a drink,” I mouth over the loud music, nodding my head toward the back wall where all the ranch hands are drinking around a large wood table. After so many years of spending every Friday night here, it’s become our designated spot. No reservation placard required.
