The doorbell rings, and I jump. He’s here.
I press my hands against my stomach. I shouldn’t have told him I’d go out with him. My quiet, hardworking life was fine without a man. It had routine. I got a lot done. I didn’t go out for a drink. There are cupcakes to decorate.
He’s waiting.
My excitement to see him wins out. I want to witness his reaction when he sees this version of me. I rush downstairs and open the door before he thinks I stood him up.
His mouth freezes in a half smile. “Day-um. You’re one fine confection.”
I laugh, fighting the urge to do a little curtsy. “Thank you. You look good too. You always do.”
He’s in a pearl-buttoned, short-sleeved, gray-striped shirt with his hair pushed off his face, sharpening the angles of his jaw and cheekbones. He cocks an elbow out. “Ma’am.”
I almost swoon. “A cowboy and a gentleman?”
“On my best days.”
I’m a lucky girl, one who might get lucky tonight.
Cruz
I take the smallest sip of my Foster House whiskey. Elodie’s having a beer, and she just finished her first. Silas, the owner of Bootleg and an old rodeo bull rider, is irritated that I’m not chugging more, but he’s doting on Elodie. I’ve picked my tongue off the floor a few times since she first opened the door, so I understand his infatuation.
She’s not hiding under her mass of hair or swaddled in baggy clothing, and she radiates an energy that draws the eye. A guy can get lost in her big hazel eyes.
“Can I get you another, Elodie?” Silas asks nicer than I’ve ever heard him take an order.
“Sure. A short, please.” She smiles at him, and the man straightens.
“My pleasure.”
I gawk at him. I’ve only lived in Huckleberry Springs for five years, and I don’t come here a lot, but he’s been nothing but gruff each time.
The glass sloshes a little when he limps over with it. “Sorry ’bout that. Did I ever tell you about how I mangled my leg?”
“I believe so.” She gives him a winning smile, probably to soften the way she’s letting him down from telling it again. “But you got him for eight seconds.”
Silas beams, his ruddy face flushing more. “Sure did.” He knocks on the counter as he heads to another guy who just sat at the end of the bar. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Where were we?” She taps her fingers on her glass. “You being a delinquent. I have a really hard time believing it.”
“You’ll never know how much of a compliment that is.”
Her brow furrows. “Why?”
“There was a time no one could imagine me as the man I am today.” I frown into my whiskey. How much do I tell her? All of it would be the right answer, but now that I’m faced with saying it, the truth burns my throat like a strong bourbon. “Lane and I didn’t get new clothes before school each year. Our lunch accounts weren’t often in the positive, and we were left home alone a lot.”
“How old were you when that happened?”
“All ages. I’d be...” I swallow hard and my cheek twitches. I take the smallest of sips. The action calms my racing thoughts more than the drink. “Dirty. Our clothes, our bodies, and when puberty hit, a kid with no deodorant? It was brutal. Other kids aren’t nice.”
“Oh, Cruz. That had to be hard.”
“I sharpened my fighting skills.” I’m not joking.
Emotions play through her eyes—sympathy, anger for that young boy, and curiosity. Her lips quirk up. “How often did you lose?”
I appreciate that she’s trying to keep the topic light. “A few times at first. I was a seventh grader, and I cocked off to some sophomore on the street. Lane had to save my stupid ass. But the time my mom’s boyfriend went after Lane, I paid him back.”
