He smiles, and not the polite, charming kind. This one’s wicked. The kind of smile that could light a fire and walk away while it burns.
“Nice to meet you.”
“You, too,” I manage, even though my pulse is a traitor pounding against my ribs.
“Saw you on stage.”
I huff out a nervous laugh, half-snort, halfplease bury me now.“Yeah… that was definitely not on my college bucket list.”
His eyes drift to the crowd, casual, unreadable. “That redhead you were with—your friend?”
I could point out that I’m also a redhead, but don’t. Amber’s hair is fire engine red only found in a bottle. It demands attention. Mine is more of a strawberry blonde that is easy to ignore.
“Yeah. Amber.”
His smile shifts. Sharper now. Intentional.
“Think you could introduce us when she gets back?”
And there it is. The drop. Like a trapdoor under my feet.
I laugh, but it comes out hollow. Stupid, really, to thinkhemight’ve been looking at me. I school my face into something neutral and force a smile that tastes like regret.
“Sure.”
He gestures toward the empty chairs behind me. “Mind if I sit?”
I shake my head and slide into a seat, towel still clutched in my lap like a thin line of dignity.
“So, Olive,” he says as he settles in beside me, spreading out like he owns the space, “you go to Sheridan?”
I nod. “Yeah. Senior. Business major.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Nice.”
“You?”
He chuckles, low and warm. “Oh, honey, I graduated a long time ago.” That grin returns, full of dangerous edges. “I run Stonewater Rodeo Stock.”
I blink, trying to piece together what that means. I must look completely lost because he bumps my shoulder with his like we’ve known each other for longer than three minutes.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
“Nope.” I shake my head, still feeling the echo of that shoulder nudge. “I’m from Wichita.”
“Well,” he says, eyes twinkling, “welcome to Wyoming, honey.”
And suddenly the bar feels smaller. Warmer. And a hell of a lot more dangerous.
My brain scrambles for something to say, which must be why I blurt out, “How old are you?”
Liam doesn’t miss a beat. “Thirty-four. You?”
“Twenty-four,” I say, wishing I could rewind five seconds and ask literally anything else.
His smile stays easy, relaxed. “And your friend?”
Ugh. There it is again. My mouth stretches into a polite grin, but inside I’m resisting the urge to roll my eyes. I really hope I’m schooling my expression, because irritation is bubbling fast.
