“You’ve been avoiding my texts. And my calls,” I drawl, careful with my tone.
Shelby folds her arms across her chest, pulling that well-worn denim shirt even tighter across her breasts. Any lesser man would get distracted, but I have a bone to pick and manage to stay on topic.
“Didn’t know I needed to check in,Dad.”
Ignoring her sass, I dive right in. “Did you kick Shane to the curb after his little stunt last night?”
Her eyes well up with tears, and I feel like an ass for bringing it up. But someone’s got to. How many of these boyfriends have turned out to be losers? Twenty? Thirty? Dammit, I’ve lost count.
The thing is, I know Shelby. I know her to her core. She’s a good woman. The best there is. She just doesn’t possess the ability to pick someone who deserves her or who’s going to treat her like she needs to be treated. And since her daddy’s not around anymore to knock some sense into these man-babies, it’s up to me to do it. The man asked me to take care of her, and I take my promises seriously.
“Why do you care?” she snaps. The tone is cold, but the tears in her eyes, along with the wobble in her lip, give her away. It’s the wobble that hits me right in the chest. Shelby’s the strongest woman I know, and yet this man has made her question herself.
I reach into my back pocket and pull out my wallet, blinded by fury and protectiveness and a sense of duty that’s careening out of control. Years of pent-up frustration have reached a boiling point. Enough is enough.
Shelby’s eyes follow the movement, confusion clear on her face. I pull out the thing I’ve kept in my wallet for longer than I’ve had Ryder’s picture in there. I hold it up for a brief moment, the ends fluttering in the evening breeze, then slap it down on the hood of her stupid truck.
“I care…” I lean in close enough to count the freckles spanning across her nose. “…because this here piece of paper says I’m your fiancé. And no one treats my woman like that.”
Chapter
Two
WHO SLIPPED A BURR UNDER YOUR SADDLE?
Shelby
It’s time Big Knob got its own otolaryngologist because, despite having my hearing checked at my yearly physical last week, I could swear I just heard Dallas Gamble call me his fiancée.
What in the actual hell? He’s not even supposed to be here! I’ve done a damn good job of dodging him all day, and Frankie promised he wasn’t coming by for supper. I’m pretty sure my defenses can withstand the rest of the Gambles, but Dallas? Not right now.
“You been gettin’ into Meemaw’s weed, Dally? You know that stuff knocks you on your ass,” I quip, despite feeling the furthest thing from lighthearted.
The last twenty-four hours have been one hell of a shitshow, and I don’t have the bandwidth to deal with my best friend’s fire-breathing dragon imitation—orthis “my woman” nonsense he’s going on about.
If I had my way, I’d be home in bed crying my eyes out or distracting myself with my favorite kind of book—an old-fashioned bodice ripper. But since that’s the first place Shanewill come looking for me, it’s not an option. Shane Conover can kiss my fat ass and fall face-first off a cliff for all I care.
Dallas hits me with a scowl liable to drive permanent troughs into his forehead. The man is stupid handsome, with thick sun-kissed hair he doesn’t bother to hide under a hat most days and a tiny cleft in his scruffy chin that makes a girl want to press her finger there just because. So, I’m sure a few more lines on his forehead to match the ones fanning out from his golden-brown eyes would only make him hotter.
Not that I have a habit of checking Dallas out myself, but other women in town make a part-time job out of it. Always have.
“Shelby, I swear to God…” He trails off, clenching his jaw tight, as if the power of his voice might knock me over should he continue.
I honestly don’t know what he’s so worked up about.He’snot the one whose boyfriend humiliated her in public and then slammed his fist into a wall when he didn’t get his way.
Dallas silently jams the index finger of his free hand into the paper he’s just slapped onto the hood of my Blazer. I choose to humor him since I’m starving, and I really don’t need Dallas stroking out before supper. He knows I get hangry, especially when I’m stressed out like I am today.
“Okay, fine,” I allow. “What are we looking at here?” I realize now it’s a paper napkin—the kind they use down at Knockin’ Boots, the lone bar and dance hall here in Big Knob. But this napkin is falling apart and covered in ink.
Instead of responding, Dallas taps the toe of his boot impatiently on the dirt and gravel beneath our feet, so I move closer to get a better look.
And then the breath leaves my lungs.
Because resting innocently under his hand is a napkin I recognize. In fact, I can’t believe I didn’t know what it was the second he waved it in front of my face just now.
But…but how does he have it?
My mouth drops open, and I have to shake my head before stuttering, “Wh-where did you get this?”
