I open and close my mouth. “That’s not fair.”
“Bitch, don’t push me. I’ll drive you there myself.”
I roll my lips. “Fine. But how am I meant to explain myself!?”
“You tell him everything.” She says it like that doesn’t make my gut cramp with anxiety.
“How about I do that tomorrow?” I reason with my best friend as I follow her out of the closet and into the bar.
“Nope.” She pops the P.
“I’ll do whatever you want,” I flutter my lashes.
“Absolutely not.” With a firm hand, she snatches my keys from the counter and plants them in my palm. “Now off you go. You’ve got a cowboy to apologize to.”
“Ash Bash,” I whine.
“Off you go.” She points to the door. “You’re cut off for the night.”
“You can’t kick me out of my own bar!”
“I just did.” She lifts a brow in challenge.
“Fine, but you’re in time out.”
“Time out from what?” She chuckles.
“Me.”
“That’s fine, you’ll be too busy saving the horses and riding the cowboy.”
I gasp and clutch at my imaginary pearls. “Ashley.”
She wiggles her brows. “Have fun.”
I watch her slip into the fray, collecting glasses as she goes, and I huff a breath. I know she’ll have my ass if I don’t leave, so I reach for a bottle of whiskey from the top shelf and then grab a bottle of wine from the fridge. Offerings always soften the blow, right? Like here, have a present, I fucked up.
God, this is going to be awful.
Say you need me.
I’m in so much trouble.
Saying a quick goodbye to those who notice me leaving, I make my exit, heading toward my truck. A quick honk of a horn catches my attention before I manage to unlock the door and lift my head to see Oscar in his cruiser parked across the street. He offers me a wave, which I return, but I don’t stick around for him to ask me out again. Laying the bottles on the passenger seat, I round the hood and hop in behind the wheel to make the journey back to Knight Falls.
The drive back goes by entirely too quickly, the ranch signage swinging in the slight breeze as I passunder it, following the long narrow road up to the main house and pull to a stop beside Roman’s truck.
I haven’t even got the door open when Roman steps out onto the porch in nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants.
Holy shit.
My mouth goes dry as I look him over, from his bare feet to the thighs that stretch out the material of the sweats, the very obvious bulge at his groin and then to the V that carves into the lower part of his abdomen, a trail of dark hair traveling from his navel down, disappearing into the waist of his pants. I follow the bumps of his abdominal muscles to his chest covered in a smattering of hair and then up, past the strong clavicles and the thick neck to his mouth and then, lastly, his whiskey eyes.
Taking a breath in the hopes it’ll soothe me, I reach for the bottles, and then get out of the car, my steps short and slow as I make my way toward him.
“You’re early, sweetheart.” He frowns, taking the bottles. “What are these for?”
“An apology.” My eyes are down, focused on the dip between his collarbones.
