Dylan’s eyes narrow. “You kissed me.”
“The hell I did. You’re the one who stepped into my space.”
He shakes his head, looking ready for another fight. His lips are still parted, like maybe he wants to say something else, and I shove the crumpled bills into his chest again, harder this time.
“I don’t want your damn money,” I say.
He rolls his eyes, finally taking the bills. “Fine, don’t have it then.”
“Great.”
“Good,” he fires back.
We stare at each other like we’re both daring the other to say one more word. I don’t trust myself not to open my big mouth. I spin on my heel and march back toward the bar, heart pounding and heat still thrumming through every inch of my body.
Everything about this man screams jerk. I’m certain Dylan is just like every other man I’ve been drawn to in my life. And right now, that is the last thing I need.
Note to self: Never kiss Dylan Sullivan again. Not if he’s the last man on earth. Not if the world is ending. Not if my life depends on it.
With any luck, I’ll never see him again.
THREE
DYLAN
I don’t know how the kiss happened—if it was her or me or both of us—only that in the moment, with the bourbon swimming through my veins, cloaking my thoughts in the best way, I didn’t want to stop. And the woman with the smart mouth and legs for days? She gave as good as she got. The way her fingers dug into my shoulders like she hated me and wanted me all at once.Right up until she pulled away, green eyes flashing and ready to fight.
I stare at the door she disappeared through, my dick still hard and my blood still hot. I’ve kissed my fair share of women, but nothing like that. That was…fire and something raw that I poured every last drop of my frustration into.
There has been no room in my life lately for anything that wasn’t getting me back to playing football. But it’s not like I had women lined up before the injury. I don’t flirt. I speak my mind, and more often than not, it lands too harsh and gets me in trouble.
My love life has never been a priority. When I wasn’t at practice or playing football, or helping out with the Stormhawks youth coaching outreach program, I kept busy on the ranch. Fixing up the paddocks. Repairing the fences when storms took them down. Painting the barn every offseason. Keeping thingslooking nice for Mama, even if the ranch wasn’t being used for work and hadn’t been since Dad died twenty years ago.
I guess there was Kate, a fitness instructor who lived a few blocks from me in the city. We met six months before the Indianapolis Riverrunners linebacker took out my knee. She didn’t seem to mind that football came first, didn’t expect grand gestures or romance. We got along… fine. But I didn’t miss her when I ended things the day after my injury. Didn’t think about her once when I was laid up at the ranch. There was no spark with Kate. Nothing close to what flared just now with blondie. And I don’t even know her name.
Hell, I don’t even like her. And she clearly hates me. I must be more buzzed than I realized if I’m even thinking about women.
Fuck. I need another drink.
I push through the doors into the bar, pulling my cap lower. The Hay Barn’s filling up with the after-work crowd—ranchers, mechanics, football fans. It’s the usual noise of boots on hardwood, country music, talk, and laughter. I keep my head down and pray no one recognizes me.I don’t want small talk with a well-meaning fan. I don’t want sympathy. All I want is the burn of another bourbon.
Flic eyes me warily as I take my seat, but she silently tops me up.
I swirl the bourbon in my glass and take a deep gulp as someone fills the stool beside me. I glance over to find a weathered old cowboy settling in, wide-brimmed hat shadowing his face. It takes a moment, but I recognize him. Bill was a good friend of my dad’s back in the day. They both bred rodeo horses and would often swap stallions for strong bloodlines, back when the ranch was alive with the smell of hay and the thunder of hooves. When Dad died and Mama had to sell the horses, it wasBill who bought them. She couldn’t run a ranch and raise three boys on her own.
“I’ll take a beer, please, Felicity,” he says, his voice as rough as his calloused hands.
I raise my empty glass. “And another bourbon for me. Put them both on my tab.”
A moment later the fresh drinks are in front of us and Bill takes a long sip, the foam of beer lying thick on his upper lip before he wipes it away.
“This was supposed to be my first beer as a retired rancher,” he says, dropping his hat down between us.
“What happened?” I ask. Either the last bourbon has loosened my lips or I’m seeking distraction from my own troubles. I’m too far gone to care which.
“Doc told me to retire, or…” He shrugs. “Breaks my heart to say goodbye to those horses. I love them like family, but I’ll be no good to them dead. So I’m selling up and going to see if this world is all it’s cracked up to be. Or I was supposed to. I had a deal lined up with a ranch out by Dallas. They were taking everything. Horses, equipment. All my stores. All of it gone in one go.” Bill sighs, a broken man I can relate to. “But the buyer never showed. Can you believe that?” He pulls out a folded document and drops it on top of the hat. “Figures, doesn’t it? Had everything packed to go tomorrow. All the guy had to do was meet me and sign the contract.” He taps the folded pages before concentrating on his beer.
My fingers move without thinking, brushing the rim of Bill’s hat. I think of my dad and the cowboy hat that still hangs on the hook in the hall at the ranch all these years later. Dad was larger than life—a man with an easy smile and a way of making everyone feel at home. The ranch was his kingdom, the horses his passion, but he always had time to throw a ball or listen to a problem. He died too young, too suddenly. Knocked on the headby the hoof of a spooked horse in a thunderstorm. A few degrees to the left, a few seconds different, and he’d still be here.
