Rick followed my eyeline. Snorted into his beer. Said nothing else about it.
Sawyer came over and leaned against the bar beside me, close enough that I could smell the soap under everything else. Up close he looked—good. Really good. Dark jeans, the henley open at the throat, the belt buckle catching the light the same way the medal did. He had the particular settled quality of a man who'd done a hard day's work and was fine with that. No performance in any of it. Just—him.
I'd spent three days surrounded by people performing.
It was disorienting, how much I noticed the difference.
"Hey," he said. “You were great out there today.”
"Thank you." I turned toward him. "You were pretty good yourself."
"I held a horse."
"You held a horse very professionally."
The corner of his mouth pulled. He flagged the bartender and ordered a beer, and I watched his hands on the bar and thought about those same hands at my waist this afternoon.
"How are the ribs?" he asked.
"You already asked me that."
"Asking again."
"Sore." I shifted against the bar. "Worth it."
That was the tequila talking. One beer and two shots with Dale's crew after the wrap, and I was warm all the way down and feeling like exactly who I wanted to be tonight.
He nodded. Took a sip of his beer. We stood there for a second, comfortable like old friends, uncomfortable like two people who’d known there was a mutual attraction for a while and had never acted on it.
As far as anyone here was concerned, he was the horse master on the call sheet.
As far as anyone here was concerned, I was actress Daphne Wilder.
Two co-workers at a bar…no strings attached.
"Ellis told me she'd call," I said, because it was safer than what I was thinking.
"Yeah?"
"My agent almost cried." I looked at my beer. "It's a big deal. Ellis Jones calling you back."
"I know,” he said. "You earned it."
I looked at him.
That was the thing about Sawyer. He didn't say things to make you feel good. He said things because they were true and the feeling good was incidental.
"I'm leaving tomorrow," I said.
"I know."
"One pickup shot and then I'm done. Back to San Antonio." I turned my glass on the bar. "Back to reality."
"This not real enough for you?"
I looked around at the sticky floor, the neon Coors Light sign with one letter out, the jukebox working hard.
"It's a dive," I said.
