“It’s quite the sight,” I reply through a laugh, then I squint off into space as I process the rest of what he said. “Wait, when have you met my mom?”
“Today.” His thumb slides across the thin dress fabric, and it catches on his hardened skin. “Turns out Jonas and I might’ve gone overboard picking you flowers, so we brought her a bouquet. I know it’s your birthday, but she did all the hard work thirty years ago…seems fair she gets something, too.”
I might need fresh air again.
• • •
If I’m not careful, I’m going to fall in love with this man. The night goes by in a blur of longing glances, discreet touches, and doing a half-ass job of pretending we’rejust friends. Honestly, thank God the girls are drunk and the guys are oblivious. Something about being the girl who made out with a hot cowboy in the alley unlocks a no-fucks-given attitude. I let Kate try to teach me how to twerk, I attempt line dancing, and I drunkenly giggle with Blair in our booth while Denny keeps us well supplied with both drinks and French fries.
Eventually it’s a little after midnight, the bass radiates through my dance-weary legs, and I chug a much-needed glass of water while Colt and Kate destroy the dance floor together. By destroy, I mean Colt’s wearing my crossbody purse—he helpfully took it when I went to the bathroom and never bothered to give it back—and moving around the floor like one of those inflatable tube guys in a hurricane. Long, tanned arms flailing to some techno music, the man is a menace to all the drunk couples trying to make out under the flashing strobe lights.
The craziest part? He’s completely sober. Hasn’t even consumed sugar tonight. Alex wouldneverlet loose like this in public, even under the influence of alcohol.
“Hey, Mama,” Colt says between panting breaths, fanning himself with his cowboy hat after stumbling off the dance floor in the dull space between songs. Sweat-damp shirt clung to his abs. My purse hanging against his waist. “Still having fun?”
“Yeah, just needed water.” I hold up my empty glass. “By the way, I’m glad you lost that bet. The mustache looks good on you.”
Laughing, he strokes it. I take that as an invitation to run my fingertips over his upper lip, then across the soft skin of his cheek, before finally trailing down to scrub the harsh stubble lining his jaw.
“Discount Riley Green?” He yells the question into my ear over a sudden bass drop.
“Hotter than Riley Green,” I shout back. “Jonas wouldn’t know a good mustache if it slapped him in the face.”
The smell of him and the slow circling of his fingers on my lower back makes the world hazy. I can’t help but imagine him drawing a similar pattern in a very different place.
With a tug of his shirt, I pull him close enough that my lips brush the shell of his ear. “I’m ready to get out of here.”
“Yeah?” He tucks hair behind my ear. I imagine I look a mess after hours of drinking and dancing in a bar filled with other sweaty, drunk people. Maybe it’s my tipsy brain playing tricks on me, but I swear he still thinks I look pretty somehow.
“I already told Blair we were leaving soon,” I say. “Jackson’s gonna drive them home.”
“Let’s get outta here then.”
Colt
Starting toward the door, she turns to me and says, “I can take my bag back, if you’re tired of looking silly.”
I gasp, clutching the strap. “You think this lookssilly? Here I was starting to see the appeal in carrying a purse.”
The first breath of crisp night air fills my lungs, and I smile at the cute, tipsy birthday girl staggering along beside me. My grip on her waist tightens. I snagged her purse after the third round of shooters because I had a feeling it was safer with me than with her. I wasn’t risking a real-life rendition of “Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off.”
After navigating down the sidewalk and across the street, we finally reach my truck. A group of guys in my periphery are staring us down as they take long drags from cigarettes, planting an uneasy feeling in my gut. Keeping one hand on her back, I tug open the passenger door and steal a glance at the men.
Whit’s oblivious—too busy trying to figure out how to climb into my slightly lifted pickup.
“Grab that handle right there and pull yourself up,” I instruct. “I’ve got you.”
She does as she’s told and throws a leg up into the truck. Her dress glides up her thighs, threatening to reveal everything she’s wearing underneath, and I grab the hat from my head without a second thought. Positioned just right, the wide brim of my Stetson covers her ass no problem.
Those boys aren’t getting a free show.
Once she’s situated in the passenger seat, my thumb pushes the manual lock as the door falls shut.
In the thirty seconds it took me to walk around to the driver’s side, Whit’s managed to kick her boots off, and she’s sitting cross-legged in the seat. I can’t help but notice that her socks don’t match—one black, the other gray and covered in yellow lightning bolts.
“Where’s Betty?”
“With my mom. I dropped her off on my way here.”
