“She said no,” he spits, voice coated in gravel. He pulls me clear, plants himself between me and Vince, who straightens with red-faced indignation.
“She’s fine, man, we’re just—”
“She’s leaving,” Jake says, not bothering to look at me. “Go hit on someone who actually wants it.”
The shoving starts before I can process it. Jake’s fist at Vince’s shirt collar, Vince twisting to break free, a tangle of arms and shoulders slamming into the edge of a table. Beer bottles crash to the floor. A woman screams—I think it’s Kat—and then abouncer the size of a Clydesdale wades in to break it apart.
Jake pulls Vince upright and shoves him through the glass double doors and out into the night. The cold rushes in behind them, scattering the smell of sweat and whiskey. The crowd is like a bunch of high schoolers, surging forward for a better look. I stand rooted, blood hammering in my fingertips.
Kat appears at my side, breathless. “What the hell was that?” She looks at the doors, then at me, and her gaze sharpens. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I manage. “I—yeah.” My voice trembles in a way I hate.
Wren and Kori cluster around, each wrapping an arm around me in a flurry of concern. “Let’s get you water,” Wren says, all business, and drags me to the bar, where someone shoves a glass into my hands.
Declan appears a moment later, out of breath and out of sorts, looking between me and the doors as if calculating disaster. “Is he gone?”
“I think so,” I say. I sip the water. My teeth chatter.
Outside, the scuffle continues: someone shouting, a laugh that goes sharp at the end, and boots crunching on icy gravel. Kat glances at the door, then at me again, eyes bright with worry. “You sure he didn’t—?”
“I’m sure,” I cut in, voice stronger this time. “It was just… a dance that got out of hand. Not the first time, definitely not the last.”
“Jake nearly knocked his teeth out,” Kat says, awe and delight rising in equal measure. “You have some sort of power over that man, you know.”
“Don’t,” I say, feeling the flush creep up my neck. “There’s nothing there. He just—he hates assholes.”
Kat grins. “Oh, I don’t know. For someone who doesn’t have the hots for you, he sure isn’t giving up easily.”
The band swings into a new song, this one less bloody, and only then do I dare look at the exit. Jake is still outside, framed in the halo of the neon sign, steam billowing from his mouth as he yells at Vince, who jabs a finger back. The bouncer keeps a hand on both men, holding them a few feet apart.
Eventually, Vince storms off, glancing over his shoulder with a parting shot I can’t hear. Jake wipes at his mouth, eyes on the ground, then turns and walks back inside, head down.
When he enters, the crowd parts for him, some with admiration, some with caution. He doesn’t look at me or anyone. He goes straight to the bar, orders a drink, and sits, hands cradling the glass like it’s the only warm thing in the room.
Kat leans in. “Now’s your chance, if you want to—”
I shake my head. “Not tonight.”
I spend the rest of the countdown with Kat,Wren, and Kori surrounding me with warmth and noise. At midnight, someone passes around cheap champagne in plastic flutes. There’s a crush of bodies and a raucous countdown, and then hundreds of voices slam into Auld Lang Syne at slightly different tempos. I let myself be hugged, let Kat press sticky kisses to my face, and stare out over the heads of the crowd toward Jake.
He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t search for me.
But when the throng of the crowd has me moving along, I’m less than a pool table length away—those blue eyes of his lock onto mine amidst the chaos. The glassy barrier in his eyes shatters, and he looks like he’s drowning.
I raise my glass—just a little. Not a toast, not a bridge—but maybe the beginning of a tiny raft.
I close my eyes and gulp the champagne; it burns as it tickles my nose, and I make a wish to take his pain away.
Chapter 2
Jake
My skull throbs with each hoofbeat. Vince’s knuckles left a tender spot above my eye that pulses in time with the hangover. I squint against the January sun reflecting off the snow as I follow the fenceline. Somewhere ahead, my Longhorns are trampling all over Moorhead land, probably leaving steaming piles of shit right where Steve, the oldest son of old man Moorhead, can step in them.
I touch the bruise and see Ella’s face again—the way her smile froze when Vince’s fingers dipped below her waistband. My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. The memory burns hotter, keeping me warmer than my sheepskin coat.
A coyote’s yip brings me back to the present, which was a good thing, because the mare beneath me hesitates, one hoof hovering above the crusted snow before breaking through to dirt. I lean forward, easing back on the reins. “Easy, Hourglass,”I murmur, watching how her ears flick back at her name.
