He’d been out on the porch of the main house with Cooper when they left, and he’d waved everyone off, telling them not to do anything stupid. The other hands didn’t seem fazed by him not joining, so Grace hadn’t thought much of it.
But she’s thinking about it now—because here he is, leaning forward on the table with a long arm outstretched over the cue, laser focused on his target. Cooper stands to his left, shaking his head in disbelief as Crew’s lips move, maybe calling the pocket, maybe trash-talking his brother, who seems fully unconvinced that he’ll make whatever shot he’s about to attempt.
Crew is steady and still until he shoots, and then the cracking echo of the cue ball hitting another sounds throughout the bar. He smirks.
Shot made.
Crew stands, circling the table to work out his next move, and Grace continues to stare at him, blatantly ignoring Vince’s hand at her waist and his beer breath wafting between them. Crew chews on the inside of his cheek as he considers, and when he’s made his way around to an unobstructed new position, Grace can’t help but admire the way he looks in the black jeans he’s wearing. She’s never seen those before, nor has she seen the black pearl-snap shirt that hangs over his gigantic shoulders. The getup is distracting enough—it takes her a few seconds to realize he’s also not wearing a hat. It’s a rare sight, his hair; there’s no way that man puts any real time and effort into it, but it’s somehow perfectly styled, and the inky-black hue of it shinesunder the ancient Budweiser lamp. He takes another step and then goes completely still. Grace’s breathing hiccups when his eyes suddenly leave the table and, in the span of a heartbeat, find hers across the bar.
She chides herself for the reaction for a brief moment—the man was nice to her and helped her pop her shoulder back into place. It’s no reason to getbreathless.
But she also doesn’t look away.
He stands, pool cue held lazily in front of him, maintaining her stare.
“So, what do you think?”
She swings her head around to look at Vince, who is staring at her with eyes too eager and slightly bloodshot. “What? Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”
“I was sayin’, we could go back to my hotel if you’d like,” he repeats, kinking a brow.
“Oh.” She looks down to hide her immediate discomfort at the suggestion. Rejecting men always is such a crapshoot, and she’s annoyed that he’s putting her in a position to have to do it. “That’s kind of you, but I don’t think so.”
His steps slow slightly, losing the beat of the song. Grace looks up to find him…surprised.
“Really?” He laughs, but there’s an edge to it. “I mean, of course, that’s fine, but—”
Grace’s eyes flit to Crew again, almost involuntarily. He’s taking another shot at a ball. Not looking at her.
“You just seemed like you were interested.”
She looks back to Vince. “In going home with you? Because we danced?”
“Well, yeah,” he replies, shrugging. They’re hardly moving now, standing near the edge of the dance floor. “That’s usually how this goes.”
Any pretense of politeness goes out the window at his words. Grace’s patience for men who can’t accept no for an answer has never been in hefty supply. She drops his hand and takes a step back. “Not with me. Sorry.”
This time, the emotion that flickers over Vince’s face isn’t surprise—it’s anger. He steps into her space abruptly, the tip of his nose nearly touching her own. Grace’s hands fly up to his chest, pushing backward.
“So, you’re the teasing type, then,” he says menacingly, reaching for her hips. His pride is hurt, and he’s clearly not used to that.
She grits her teeth and bites out, “Don’t touch me.”
The command only spurs him on, and there’s a hand at her bicep now, squeezing roughly. His eyes are wild as he says, “I’ve never been a fan of being teased. Maybe we should go out to my truck and settle this.”
“How about youback the fuck off?” a voice booms. It cuts through everything—the music, the murmur of the patrons, the thudding of Grace’s heart. Somehow, Crew has found his way across the bar and is now standing between her and Vince. How he got here as quickly as he did is one of nature’s mysteries—his impossibly long legs lending to quicker strides, maybe.
“Who’s this?” Vince barks, his chest starting to puff out. The effort to look more masculine is comical and futile.
Crew isn’t just taller—hetowersover Vince, dwarfing him into more of a wiry schoolboy than a man.
“This is—” Grace stops short. Her eyes dance back and forthover Crew’s taut features, staring at him as he stares Vince down like a predator in wait. There’s a subtle, guarded fury that vibrates off him, something that’s only visible if one knows where to look: his hands, fingers flexing and unflexing; his jaw, unsettled and tense.
“It’s none of your fucking business who I am,” Crew spits back, taking a sidestep to put his body even farther between Vince and her, until Grace can see only the top of Vince’s hat over Crew’s shoulder. He crowds into Vince’s space, and she wonders if it stings, the way the shorter man’s head has to angle upward to continue looking Crew in the eye.
“Walk away.” Crew seethes.
A long moment passes with neither man saying another word. Crew is still as a statue, but Grace knows instinctively that he’s a coil ready to spring at any second. Self-preservation seems to finally rear its head in Vince’s case, because after a beat, he throws up his hands in surrender and starts to back away from them.
