I glance at him.
He’s grinning.
“It’s not as rough as it looks.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“You didn’t have to,” he says.
He jerks his chin toward the room.
“We know almost everyone in here,” he assures me. “And the ones we don’t are usually with someone we do.”
Waylon drops into a chair beside the table. “You’re safe, douchebag.”
I sit down slowly. “I’m not worried about my safety,” I grit out.
Before I can say more, a server appears beside the table.
She looks about twenty-five, blonde ponytail, black tank top withThe Soused Cowprinted across the front.
She plants a hand on her hip. “You boys want the usual?”
Bryce nods immediately. “Yeah.” Then he glances at me. “And our new friend here will take …”
“A scotch, neat,” I say.
The server nods once. “Got it.”
Bryce pulls out a card and hands it to her before she disappears back toward the bar.
I open my mouth to object.
Then close it again.
Waylon leans back in his chair. “You look like a scotch guy.”
“And what does a scotch guy look like?” I ask.
He smirks. “A douchebag.”
Bryce laughs, but it’s all good-natured.
My attention drifts back to the dance floor before I can stop it.
The band finishes their song.
The crowd cheers loudly.
The lead singer—tall guy with shaggy hair and a guitar slung across his chest—jumps down from the stage like he’s done it a hundred times before.
Harleigh laughs when he lands beside her.
He says something into her ear, and she grins up at him.
Then he takes her hand.
My jaw tightens slightly.
