Page 111 of Colt

“I’m going to order the most expensive thing on the menu because the filet is the best I’ve ever had. Also, I pay for my own meals, thank you very much.”

He reaches across the center console to pat my bare thigh. “You’re cute.”

“I mean it.”

He keeps his hand on my leg. “Maybe when you’re with losers in Fort Worth you do. But when you’re with me?” He shakes his head, all cowboy cockiness as he drapes his other wrist over the top of the steering wheel. “You ain’t payin’.”

Okay.

Okay okay okay.

The almost painfully pleasurable tingle that moves through me at his insistence that he’ll pay, take charge, fuck me well—does fessing up to that make me a bad feminist?

I sincerely hope not. Because I love everything about this date so far.

In the back of my mind, I know I should be worried when Colton holds open the Homestead Hen’s door for me.

I should be very worried when he shakes the host’s hand and the host pulls back to find a fifty-dollar bill in his palm.

“But you already made a reservation,” the man says.

Colton shrugs. “Kinda wanted to make sure we got the best table. You know, the one⁠—”

“In the bar. Yes. Right this way.”

We’re led to the sexiest, coziest leather booth imaginable. It’s shaped in a circle around a cute little table set with candles and more fancy crystal glasses than I can count.

“I thought we were going to a honky-tonk.” I look down at my very short dress and very conspicuous cowboy boots.

Colton puts his hand on the small of my back. “We are. Later. You see anybody else in here dressed up? You got nothing to worry about, Lainey. You look great.”

And you’re really great at this dating thing for someone who claims to never get out.

It hits me as we order cocktails and a “double dip” appetizer, consisting of guacamole and spicy pimento cheese plus homemade tortilla chips, that I may be in my mid-twenties but I’ve never felt like I’ve been on a real adult date before. One where I’m sitting at a nice table in a nice restaurant with a really nice guy.

Until now.

Colton drinks his whiskey straight. Me, I prefer the Homestead Hen’s fabulous whiskey sour, which I ordered the last time I was here when I met Mollie and Cash. As usual, the one the bartender shakes up for me is pure perfection, tart and strong and just the slightest bit sweet.

“So,” I say.

Colton spreads his knees so that ours touch underneath the table. “So.”

“I suddenly forget how to do this dating thing.”

“I never knew how to do it.”

“What was the last date you went on?”

Sipping his whiskey, he sucks on his teeth. “Last real date? It had to be with my wife. Six years ago? Five?”

My stomach drops. Not because him talking about her is a turn-off but because he’s once again going there. I may not know Colton well, but I know he doesn’t open up. Like, at all.

But here he is, opening up.

I should be very, very scared at this point. Of wanting him too much. Of falling too fast. I’ve been down that road before, the one where I end up in love with someone who doesn’t love me back.

Not doing that again.