He looks at me like he doesn’t know what the fuck I’m talking about.
“Cut the shit, Tanner.” I point my pint at him. “You only come out drinking when you want me to do some bullshit you know is going to piss me off.”
A grin flashes across his face. “You finally figured that out, huh?”
“Finally?” I arch a brow, snorting. “Motherfucker, I’ve been aware. But free beer is free beer.”
A rough chuckle scrapes up his throat. “Bastard.”
I just smirk in response and take another long drink. “Consider it payback for all the shit I do for you and your brothers.”
“Like we don’t pay you well.” He scratches the side of his face with his middle finger, making me grin.
“Damn right, you pay me well. And I’m worth every penny.” It’s not a lie. The Carrington Ranch is a massive, multi-million-dollar operation. As the ranch manager, it’s my job to keep the ranch hands in order and everything operating, freeing Tanner and his brothers to focus on other shit, like the finances and their hunting leases. Wrangling cowboys is an impossible task most days. Wrangling Carrington cowboys is something else altogether. They’re all pains in my ass.
“In all seriousness,” he says, “we need to get that new cattle run finished before Christmas. Can you do it?”
“I can set half the hands to bolstering windbreaks and monitoring the cattle in the north field next week, and the other half to finishing the run.” I drum my fingers on the bartop, considering it. “It’ll be tight, but we should be able to pull it off.”
“Good deal.” His shoulders relax, like he was worried I’d tell him we couldn’t swing it. As if that’s ever been a problem. We handle what needs handling. Always have.
The doors of the bar open, a blast of chilly air blowing through the crowded room. I freeze with my beer halfway to my lips, my eyes locked on the curvy little elf stumbling inside. Everyone in the bar seems to notice her at the exact same second. For the first time in memory, the bar is quiet. Eerily so.
Not that I blame them or anything.
What the fuck is she wearing?
Her little elf costume looks like something a co-ed would wear to a frat party. It’s less costume and more porn-star getup. Theskirt is short enough to qualify as indecent, and far too much of her creamy skin is on display.
She seems to realize it at the same time. She slaps her hands across herself like she’s trying to hide from the three dozen sets of eyes staring her down. But her head comes up, a stubborn tilt to her jaw that makes my goddamn dick hard, like she’s just daring someone to comment on her outfit.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, my heart pounding.
Every man in the bar is eyeing her up and down like she’s a goddamn steak sizzling on the grill. But it’s not the costume doing it for me. It’s the pink tint to her cheeks and the blue shade of her eyes. She looks like a naughty little angel, doing her best not to show fear, even though she’s obviously scared shitless.
I plunk my beer down, hauling myself to my feet.
“Be right back,” I growl at Tanner, not taking my eyes off the mystery elf.
“Good luck with that,” he chuckles from beside me.
I ignore him, wading across the bar toward her, praying I get there before one of these other assholes does. It’s been a while since I had to break a jaw, but I will do it.
No one tries to interfere as I stomp toward her, as if they all instinctively know now is not the time to test me. Even Blaze Hendrix, one of ours with a penchant for causing trouble just to keep life interesting, just looks at me, shaking his head.
“You lost?” I ask, stepping up in front of the elf. Her eyes are even bluer up close and personal. And she’s even smaller than I thought. She barely reaches my chest.
She tips her head back, those big blue eyes locked on my face. “Do I look lost?” she asks, crossing her arms. It only manages to push her tits up in the band-aid she’s pretending is a top.
“Yeah, actually, you do.” I let my gaze run over her, not missing the way the flush to her cheeks runs all the way down her throat to her chest. “Most women who come here have dirt on their boots and buckles they won on the back of a horse. They aren’t dressed like… that.”
“Like what?” she asks, batting her lashes at me in a way that says I’m two seconds from stepping into a pile of shit I’m not prepared to handle.
“Like you belong on the set of a movie they can’t show on TV, Sugar Plum,” I say anyway. Let’s be honest. If she’s trouble, I’m fucking dying to know what kind.
Her eyes narrow on my face before she huffs. “First of all, women are allowed to wear whatever they want to wear,” she says, her shoulders going back. I barely manage to keep from grinning. “Second of all, maybe I did just come from the set of a movie they don’t show on TV. And third, if I did, that’s none of your business.”
“Well, if you don’t want comments on your outfit, maybe don’t waltz into a bar full of men who spend more time with pissed off bulls and pregnant heifers than people,” I suggest. “Most of them haven’t been with a woman in months. They’ll eat you alive.”
