I was still me.
Quiet, serious, Sistine…Fausti…who did not mind getting lost in her own mind, music playing in the background, and creating a tangible piece of jewelry from it afterwards.
Everyone started to sway to the song Atta was singing. It was about a woman who was about to break a man’s heart—her heart breaking in the process. Her voice was heartbreaking. Clear, but soft, and her folksy accent shone through. After that, she sang a few fast songs, and the winker from outside winked at me again and invited me onto the dance floor with a “come on” hand gesture.
Remo stared at the man, a hard look on his face. The winker had attempted to bridge the wall around me earlier, on the guise of grabbing a drink, but he could not. I turned my back on the winker and downed another drink, sighing into the glass.
It was pathetic, but I missed my husband. Did that make me a husband’s woman? Because I felt as if I was. I felt melancholy and out of sorts. All I wanted to do was return to our cabin inthe woods and have him sing to me while he ran his fingertips up and down my bare back.
He would seduce me to open to him as if I was a wildflower in the fields in spring, and enter me, pure bliss on his face while he made an animalistic noise in his throat…
I threw back the rest of the drink, choking on the fire.
Willa pounded me on the back. “All right there, Italian Cowgirl?”
“All right,” I forced out.
She nodded, lifting her finger for another drink. She glanced at me. “I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but…you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
I choked on the drink that had just gone down, adding to the scald of the previous burn. Willa laughed, pounding me on the back again. She asked Sam for a glass of water. He set it in front of me, narrowing his eyes.
“I’ve never known Ms. Sistine to cough over a little thing like whiskey and Coke.”
I waved my hand. “Went down the wrong way,” I rasped out.
“Sorry if I took you off guard, but it’s the truth.” Willa played with her glass, moving it back and forth between her hands. “Physically you’re stunning.” She sighed, then turned to me. “You have something else, too, something that usually drives a woman like me mad—and not in the good way. You have something that can’t be bottled or recreated. Something that can’t be stolen. It’s unique. Keep it close and guard it, Italian Cowgirl. I tolerate you for Atta’s sake, but if it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t be as nice to you as I am.
“I’m not a girl’s girl. I’m a feral cat. Get in my way and I strike. And you seem the same, even though there’s something innocent about the way you look. Then again. Your eyes. I recognize the defiance in them. Your eyes are cat-shaped too. Like I said, we’d have a problem if it wasn’t for Atta. That manyou’re always eying? He’d be mine, at least for a night.” She thanked Sam for her drink and went for the guy who had been winking at me.
An interesting admission, but I did not care enough about Willadeene Sharp to waste my time or energy on her. If she kept my husband’s name out of her mouth, kept away from him, and was good to my cousin, we had no problem. We were not friends.
Sighing, I closed my eyes, finishing my drink.
I swayed a bit.
It was not from the drink.
It was from the scent suddenly hitting me square in the chest, cutting my air off. My stomach flipped with the wings it suddenly grew.
A warm hand came to my lower back. “Steady, Cowgirl.” His breath was as warm as his hand, but nowhere near as heavy as the pressure he was applying—a show of sole proprietorship—to my lower back, and it was close to my ear. I could almost feel the brush of his lips.
My hands flattened on the bar top, but my knuckles curled, seeking purchase.
“Your husband’s a fucking fool for releasing you to the world without him next to you. I’ll be the man who’s lucky enough to spin you around this fucking dance floor.” He looked me up and down. “Fuck. You’re gorgeous. This dress is mine later. So is the belt.”
A slight smile played at my lips. It was not even the flirting. It was the relief. My eyes slowly opened, and I turned to him. His hand moved from my lower back to my hip, then the other did the same, keeping me steady.
He felt it.
The moment I softened to almost the floor from his proximity and his sensuous eyes on mine.
It hit me then.
The truth.
He was still in the same clothes from earlier, which was unlike him. He dressed for whatever the occasion was. Gold Rush wasn’t a hopping LA club, but men and women still dressed in their finest western wear to come out and dance. His ball cap was turned backward. His flannel and jeans, even his face, was smeared with dirt and oil. I could smell the petrol on him. His boots were always filthy, but they were worse than usual. Clumped with mud and grass.
He was still the most stunning man in this place, this state, in the world.
