I drag a hand down my face, shaking my head slightly.
I should’ve taken my ass home.
Behind me, the door swings shut with a heavy thud as Bryce and Waylon step in.
“Come on, Garrison,” Waylon says. “Don’t second-guess it now.”
“I’m not,” I mutter.
He grins like he doesn’t believe me.
The girls are already halfway across the bar, weaving through the crowd toward the dance floor like they own the place.
Which, judging by the number of people yelling their names, they practically do.
Harleigh is at the front of the pack.
Of course she is.
Before we left the ranch, she changed into a pair of wide-legged chocolate suede pants and a cowhide-print bustier, topped with a thin brown corduroy jacket. Her hair tumbles down her back. I watch as she throws her head back, laughing at something Shelby said, and for a moment, I forget where I am entirely.
Then Waylon claps a hand on my shoulder and steers me toward the back corner. “Tables,” he says. “We need tables.”
Bryce is already dragging one across the floor.
The legs scrape loudly against the wood planks.
I grab the edge of another and help shove it into place.
Waylon adds a third.
It’s clearly their usual routine.
People passing by nod at them.
A couple of guys stop to shake hands with Bryce. Rodeo fans.
Someone shouts something across the room at Waylon, and he throws his hand up.
I stay quiet, scanning the bar out of habit.
Crowd size.
Exits.
Body language.
Years of my father drilling security risks into my head have hardwired the instinct into me.
I catalog everything automatically.
The front door. The side exit near the bathrooms. The bar in the center of the room separates the tables from the game area.
And the dance floor.
Harleigh and her sisters are already there, moving with the music, like they’ve been waiting all night to let loose.
Cabe appears beside me suddenly and slaps a hand against my back. “Relax,” he says.
