Then, with that smug, damn grin, he steps back—victory stamped all over him.
“Another round for the group,” Charming tells the bartender. “And this one’s on Trouble. He owes me. Oh—and give yourself a big tip, sweetheart,” he adds with a wink.
“Sure thing, Charming,” she says, flashing him a smile that makes me want to punch him in the damn ribs.
I lean back on the barstool, jaw tight. “Thanks for that.”
He just raises his glass. “Anytime.”
I take a swig of my whiskey, the ice clinks against my teeth as I watch Charming head back to our group, carrying a few bottles in his hands over with him. With a resigned sigh, I pull out my wallet and drop my card on the counter for the bartender.
"Trouble," a voice carries from behind me, and I don't need to turn around to know who's there.
"What exactly were you doing bright and early this morning?" Sawyer asks, and I can tell she’s probably got one hand resting on that hip of hers.
The corners of my mouth fight a grin. “You tryin’ to dig up dirt on me, Sawyer?”
A breeze of wildflowers and fire swirls around me as she steps closer, her presence brushing against mine like static. Her icy eyes find mine as she leans against the bar in front of me.
"Just answer the question," she says, steady. But there’s a spark there—one I’m starting to get addicted to.
I shift my weight, cocking an eyebrow as my gaze drops just for a second.
"That a new dress? Or is that somethin’ you wear to interrogate all your suspects?"
"Let me guess, you hate it?" Her head tilts, testing me.
"Absolutely," I say, slow and easy, lifting my drink to my lips. "Hate it on you."
Her jaw drops, already gearing up to snap back—but I’m not done.
My gaze drops again, taking in the way that dress fits her just right. It’s unfair, the kind of unfair that makes good men reckless and bad men even worse. But it's not the dress itself that I don’t like—it's the effect it has on me, on every man here.
"Figures," she mutters, a little too quiet. Then, sharper, "You've got some nerve. What exactly don’t you like about this dress?"
I drift in, stopping just at the edge of her ear, my voice lowering into something meant to hook and hold her.
"It’s not the dress I’ve got a problem with, darlin’." She blinks. Just once. And that’s all I need. "A dress like that? It was made to be taken off you. Should already be on the floor."
She smirks, tiltin’ her head. “Silly boy. Don’t you know that’s the point? A woman buys a dress like this so a man will wanna take it off her.”
I huff out a laugh. “Can’t argue with that.”
Her eyes narrow just a touch. “And you can talk about stripping me outta this dress, but you can’t be honest with me? You claim to be this truthful man. That people know exactly what they get with you, but you won't be upfront with me."
"Tell me," I say, my drawl slow and deliberate. "What am I not being upfront about?"
Her lips part like she’s about to say something, but she doesn’t. Just holds my gaze, steady and unflinching, like she’s daring me to make the first move.
Andfuck, I want to.
Sawyer stands there, all put together and fire, fierce as hell with that chin tilted up like she owns every inch of this town. I can’t want her—and that’s a fucking problem.
There’s this pull between us, magnetic, dangerous, and damn near impossible to ignore. I know she feels it too. It's in the way her breath hitches when I look at her too long. The way I catch her noticing me from across the room. And in the way her body leans in—just enough to make me wonder if she’ll close the space between us—before she catches herself and steps back.
And the worst part?
We’re both holding a full house, bluffing like hell, waiting to see who folds first.
