He walked up to Jerry, whispered something, and then the opening chords of "Wagon Wheel" started playing.
Oh, this was going to be good. Or a disaster.
Except it wasn't just good. It was legitimately great.
Beau could actually sing. Not just fake-it-with-enthusiasm sing, but real, carry-a-tune, country-song sing. His voice was deeper than I expected, rougher, with a timbre that vibrated right in my chest. He performed it like he meant every word, easy and confident.
"Rock me mama like a wagon wheel, rock me mama any way you feel..."
The bar went absolutely wild. Women were screaming, guys were clapping along, and Cassie was leaning over to me, shouting over the noise, "WHY IS HE GOOD AT EVERYTHING? IT’S ANNOYING!"
"I DON'T KNOW!" I shouted back, unable to look away from him.
When he finished, the applause was deafening. He came back to the table looking both embarrassed and pleased, a flush high on his cheeks.
"You've been holding out on us," I said, genuinely impressed. "Where'd you learn to sing like that? Boarding school?"
"Piano lessons as a kid. Choir in high school. Did some musical theater in college," he admitted with a shrug. "My father hated it, said it was 'frivolous,' so naturally I kept doing it out of spite."
"Rebel," Cassie said approvingly. "I like it. Spite is a great motivator."
The rest of the night blurred into a pleasant haze of more drinks, more conversations with locals who were finally warming up to Beau, and more truly terrible karaoke from people who definitely should not have had access to microphones.
At some point, a guy named Tyler—who I'd dated briefly a couple of years ago—came over to say hi.
"Hey, Win," Tyler said, leaning against our table with that easy, cowboy charm that used to work on me. "Heard you're trainin' for regionals. How's Bandit doin'?"
"Good. Real good. Think we got a shot this year."
"I bet you do. You were always the best rider in the county." He glanced at Beau, his smile tightening just a fraction. "You must be the Sterling boy everyone's talking about."
"Beau," he corrected, and his voice had an edge to it I hadn't heard before. Harder. "And you are?"
"Tyler Marsh. I run a ranch about ten miles from the Jameson place." He stuck out his hand, and Beau shook it. They both did that stupid guy thing where they grip too hard, knuckles white, trying to establish dominance over who had the firmer handshake.
"Tyler and I dated a while back," I said, trying to diffuse the testosterone cloud that was rapidly forming. "But we're just friends now."
"Good friends," Tyler added, winking at me. "Winnie's one of the best people I know."
"I'm aware," Beau said coolly.
Oh for fuck's sake.
"Tyler, thanks for stopping by," I said pointedly, kicking Beau under the table. "We're actually about to head out. Long day tomorrow."
"Sure, sure. Good to see you, Win. You too, Beau." He tipped his hat and walked away, and I turned to Beau with raised eyebrows. "What was that?"
"What was what?"
"The territorial cowboy thing you just did. Puffing your chest out."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You do realize I'm perfectly capable of having guy friends without you getting all... protective? Plus, I'm a grown ass woman."
"I wasn't being protective."
"You definitely were."
