“Aw, come on,” the guy croons, leaning an elbow on the empty bar top beside me. “Just lemme buy you a drink.”
“Nope, I’m good.” This time I shake my head for emphasis, in case his hearing has been rendered useless by alcohol.
He frowns. “Bitch.” He bobs his head as he uses the word, and his eyes are half-lidded.
“Is there a problem here?”
The voice comes from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. It slips over me, shielding me from drunken stupidity.
Wes stands beside me, inserting himself between me and the guy. He smells like man, and body wash, and heaven.
“Don’t bother buying her a drink.” Dudebro waves his hand around. “She’ll tell you no. She’s a bitch.”
Before I can register what exactly has just happened, Wes has his hand pressed to the side of the guy’s head and his head pressed against the bar. “What did you say?” he whispers into his ear.
“Nuh… nothing.” The guy squirms.
Wes hauls him up by the back of his shirt. “In Sierra Grande, we treat women like ladies. Apologize to her.”
The guy won’t look me in the eyes. “Sorry,” he stammers.
Wes tosses him off to the side as if he is no more than a used dishrag. The guy stumbles back to his friends, who are all watching with wide eyes. Wes stares them down until they turn away.
“Pricks,” Wes mutters. “Who doesn’t stand up for their friend?” He motions to the bartender to bring two more, pointing to the empty glass in front of me, the very same empty glass that started that whole mess.
The bartender busies himself pouring our drinks, and Wes pins his gaze to mine. “We need to talk, Dakota.”
My adrenaline is still racing from the whole scene, and I can’t form a sentence, so I nod.
Wes tosses cash on the bar and picks up the drinks the bartender has set down. He leads us to an empty booth in the corner.
“So,” he starts, wrapping his fingers around his glass. “Is Emerson mine?”
I press the pads of my fingers into my eyes and give my pulse a few seconds to slow down.
“No,” I answer. “And she’s not mine, either. She’s my niece.”
“I thought…” He trails off, rubbing a palm over his face. He looks at me, and I think I see relief in his eyes, but there’s something else in there too, and it stuns me.Disappointment?“I had a whole speech planned.”
I sip my drink. “You can still give it, if you want.”
He smirks. “No, I’m good.”
I pout. “Shame. Would’ve been interesting. Maybe I’d get treated to more hot and cold signals from you. Surely it would have been the source of a little fun.”
My words hit home. I both hear and see his sharp intake of breath. Emotion rolls over his face, reminding me of booming thunder and driving rain. Stormy is the perfect way to describe this man. He sets his forearms on the table, and his whole body leans forward with them. The intensity draws me in, the same way a person walks closer to a fire just to feel the heat and watch the lick of flames.
“What do you think I was going to say?” His voice is thick, husky.
“Oh, I don’t know. Something like, ‘If Emerson is mine, then I want custody.’”
He shakes his head. “Wrong. I was going to ask you to marry me.”
It’s a good thing there isn’t anything in my mouth right now, because I’d be choking on it. “What?” I sputter.
“I’d want a child of mine to grow up with two parents, the way I did. The way you did.”
“Well”—I clear my throat—“Emerson isn’t either of ours, so crisis averted.”
