Either Smithson was wrong about his luck or it was no match for Jean’s skill, because he kept losing. Finally the other beverage bros got bored and headed upstairs to smoke cigars, giving Smithson the excuse he needed to fold.
“FYI, Two Buck, a real man doesn’t get his sidepiece to do his dirty work,” Smithson said, tossing down his cards.
“I love statements that start with ‘a real man’ or ‘a real woman.’ They’re always so progressive,” Jean mused.
“And she’s not my sidepiece,” Charlie added.
“Call it what you want, bro. You might be hitting that, but I don’t see you telling your daddy she’s your woman.” He jerked a thumb at Jean, and Charlie had the urge to bend that digit backward until Smithson apologized.
The anger was so strong, he was shaking with it. “I would never call hermywoman—”
“Oops,” Smithson sneered, as Jean pushed away from the table, hiding her face from Charlie.
Before he could explain that he only meant no one could own another person—least of all a free spirit like Jean—she was gone.
Chapter 27
Jean returned from a solo nature walk—which wasn’t nearly as relaxing as that kind of thing was supposed to be—the next afternoon to find a note from Hildy on her pillow.
Hope you’re ready for cowboy poetry night.
Ominous.
Or maybe that was the lingering bad mood from last night talking. So what if Charlie had repudiated her in public? Today was another day, full of fresh opportunities to make him regret his choices.
Time to weaponize some rhymes.
Jean’s wardrobe was better suited for an evening of Slutty Conceptual Art, so she chose the outfit most likely to torture Charlie: a neon mesh sheath over a sculptural fuchsia bra and high-waisted panties. Was it subtle? No. But if ever there was a look that said,eat your heart out, triple-timer, this was it.
She checked her reflection one last time before leaving the wagon, snapping a selfie for posterity. Posting it was out of the question, but Jean imagined the caption she would use if she could.
Twang this, bitches.
When she reached the main house, Jean discovered that the far end of the Pikes’ spacious patio had been converted into a stage. The emcee—face barely visible behind a mustache that probably had its own zip code—stepped to the mike as she approached.
“Git yerselves right on up here now y’all, we’re about to have us a rootin’ tootin’ good time.”
A guitarist and a fiddler played a jaunty tune as the crowd drifted toward the stage. Jean glimpsed a head of dark hair zigzagging through the sea of bodies, which gave her a few seconds to compose herself before Charlie appeared.
“Eve.” He paused to catch his breath. “You look incredible.”
“I know.”
“Oh, um, good.” He blinked a few times, like he was trying to unscramble his thoughts. “I wanted to thank you. For last night.”
A tequila purveyor (Jean recognized him by the bolo tie) glanced curiously at them.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She started to edge past Charlie.
“Do you have an identical twin?” he asked, sticking to her side.
“No.” Although that would have been a good angle. Next time, maybe. If she ever found herself in a situation remotely resembling this one.
“There might be dancing later,” he tried again.
It was her turn to frown at him. “You dance?”
“I guess there’s a caller who tells you the moves.”
