We head back, winding past the regulars and the one sad karaoke man howling at an iPad. At the back booth, Rogue and Charming are already there and are stacking bottle caps into a lopsided tower.
Rogue raises a brow at Hazel, then at Knox, and grins, “So this is the chicken grit girl?”
Hazel blushes, then nods. “Guilty.”
Charming flips his hat backwards. “Welcome to the wolfpack, babydoll.”
Knox groans. “Ignore every word they say.” He gestures to the waitress for another round, then slides into the booth, Hazel tucked under his arm like she ain’t prepared for us.
I take the spot across from him and let the neon wash over me. I watch the way Knox relaxes for the first time in a while.
Rogue elbows me under the table, whispers, “You tell him yet?”
I shake my head, shooting him a glare that screamsshut the hell up.
“Better do it soon,” he says, soft for once. “Before Charming does.”
The next hour blurs—pitchers, chicken wings, Hazel holding her own. She and Knox laugh like they’ve got a private joke already, but every so often I see her look around, searching for something or someone.
Then I spot Sawyer, finally, halfway down the bar.
She’s got her hair in a messy knot, scrolling her phone with one finger. She’s not wearin’ much make-up besides a sexy shade of red lipstick. When she spots us, she lifts her glass and smiles, her frostbite-blue eyes flashing under the lights.
Knox notices and calls her over. “Sawyer! Come meet Hazel.”
She’s in boots and a skirt that might be leather or might be something similar, but it hugs her just right. Every guy in her path glances up and then looks away, like she’s too bright to stare at for long. She lands at our table and leans in.
“So this is Hazel,” Sawyer says, looking the girl up and down. “She’s gorgeous. Good job, brother.”
Hazel laughs, a little shy. “Knox warned me about you. Said you’d be sizing me up.”
Sawyer rolls her eyes playfully. “Please. He’s the only one I give a hard time. Everyone else gets my nice side.”
Rogue leans in and whispers, “She gives Trouble a hard time, too.”
I kick his boot under the table. He yelps.
“Alright,” I say, pushing up from my seat, “I’m gonna get some air.”
No one tries to stop me. I nod at Hazel, clap Rogue on the back, and catch Sawyer’s gaze just long enough to see the curiosity flicker there. Then I slip out the back door and step onto the patio.
The string lights above cast a warm glow, flickering softly in the breeze. I move past a few empty tables and head toward the far corner where the pergolas stand—three of them spaced out across the stone, each framed in rough-hewn beams and draped with fabric panels. Most of them are tied open tonight, but they can be drawn shut when you need a little privacy.
They tried to get locals excited about this place. Put daybeds inside the pergolas, got cushions piled high, pillows tossed around, no one hardly uses ‘em though.
I pick the one at the edge, shadowed from the bar lights, and sink onto the daybed. The cushions swallow me, and I stretch out, tipping my head back. My shoulders are tight from riding—still wired from everything that went down—and for the first time today, I let myself breathe.
The silence settles around me. Crickets. The soft hum of music from inside.
Then a quiet voice floats through the hush. “Can I come in?”
twenty-nine
Sawyer
He’s not wearing the cowboy hat tonight. That’s the first thing I notice.
Instead, Trouble’s got a backwards hat shoved over his messy hair. His sun-kissed skin is extra red from being in the heat. His shirt’s clinging to him just right—forearms roped with veins, shoulders broad and completely relaxed as he’s leaning back in the daybed like he’s at the beach.
