There was more bouncing, followed by Sophia’s exuberant, “Goodnight, Daddy!”
“Night, baby,” he called after her.
“I think it might be wise if I sleep in the game room with them again,” Becs said when she turned around to face him. “I’m not sure sleep’s gonna come quickly tonight.”
“No, it won’t,” he agreed, but he wasn’t only referring to the girls.
“How about a deal?” Becs said. “I stay up with them tonight, and you get up early with them tomorrow?”
“I can handle that deal.”
She moved closer. “About that kiss…”
Evan swallowed and waited for her to finish that sentence.
Her voice was soft when she said, “I hope we get to do it again sometime.”
“Me, too.”
***
“I won’t lie. This isn’t somethin’ Inormally do.”
“What’s that?” Atticus asked, glancing over at Carson.
They’d been sitting at the back of the bar for the past two hours, simply talking. Mostly about mundane shit like the weather, but there were a couple of instances when Atticus had gotten a glimpse into who Carson was.
“Come to this bar and not spend the entire time shootin’ the shit with my cousins and catchin’ up on what’s goin’ on in their lives.”
Atticus motioned toward the tables where a handful of people still lingered. “Well, don’t let me keep you.”
Carson tilted his head and regarded Atticus from underneath thick, dark lashes. “I didn’t say I’dratherbe doin’ that.”
Atticus wouldn’t admit it, but he was glad. He was enjoying Carson’s company.
He’d learned quite a bit about the sexy Carson Briggs over the course of the time they’d spent together. At thirty-one, he was the youngest of six. His mother, Maryanne, was Brantley’s father’s youngest sister. Carson had two brothers, Jaxson and Wyatt, and three sisters, Piper, Renee, and Cara. Jaxson, the oldest, had his own handyman business in Coyote Ridge, and he helped out at Walker Demo whenever Autumn, who happened to be dating Charlotte Miller, one of Atticus’s co-workers, needed assistance. Carson’s oldest sister, Piper, was a psychiatrist who’d recently started a practice in town after moving back with her son when she divorced her cheatin’ bastard of a husband—Carson’s words. Renee was married to a lawyer, and they had four kids. They lived in San Antonio. Cara, the youngest sister, was an internet influencer—whatever that was—and made more money doing it than most of his siblings combined. Oh, and in Cara’s spare time, she was a volunteer fireman for the Coyote Ridge Fire Department. And Carson was an electrician.
There was no doubt Atticus wouldn’t remember most of those names come morning, but he’d enjoyed hearing the stories. What he found interesting was that Carson liked to talk about himself the least. He could go on and on about his family, but when Atticus tried to get too personal, he somehow managed to steer the conversation elsewhere.
“Excuse me for a minute,” Atticus told Carson when he felt his eyes on him. “I’m gonna hit the head.”
Carson nodded, then tipped back the rest of his pink drink. Atticus hadn’t asked what it was, but he knew one thing for sure, there was alcohol in the damn thing. If he had to guess, Carson was past the point of wasted, which was why his ass had remained glued to the chair. He doubted seriously that the guy was interested in what little bit Atticus had to say throughout the night. Guys like Carson never did. They entertained the notion for a little while but usually came to their senses before the night ended.
No, there was no way a guy as nice and stable as Carson had any interest in Atticus. It didn’t work out that way for him. The guys he generally went home with were the ones who were out of work for one reason or another. At twenty-five, Atticus had never had a serious relationship, much less a stable one. Then again, he wasn’t serious or stable, either, so it wasn’t surprising that was the type of guy he attracted.
He shoved open the bathroom door, moving to the side to keep from getting plowed over by a tall cowboy on his way out.
After taking a piss and washing his hands, Atticus used the rough paper towels to dry them while he stared at himself in the flaked and peeling mirror. He’d spent most of the last hour debating whether he should invite Carson back to his motel room. If he did, they’d likely have a fantastic night, but no doubt he wouldn’t see Carson after that. Maybe if their paths crossed in town.
As for why Atticus wasn’t keen on that idea, he didn’t know. He liked Carson. And that usually meant he needed to steer clear of him. As far as sex went, anyway. Otherwise, it would get weird later on down the road.
No, what Atticus needed to do was go back to his motel room. Alone. He’d stopped drinking an hour ago, and he’d only had three beers all night. He was fine to drive, and there was no better time than the present to make his exit. He would tell Carson he enjoyed meeting him and hoped they could hang out again sometime.
Simple.
Tossing the paper towel in the trash, Atticus opened the door and found Carson standing in the hallway, one booted foot resting on the wall.
Damn, the man was fine. With his blue-gray eyes and the dark stubble that lined his jaw, not to mention a body honed from physical labor, Carson was the sort of man you looked at twice to see if your eyes were playing tricks on you. His weren’t.
