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CHAPTER EIGHT
TANNER
The clock on my office wall reads three-twenty-three, but the little bar at the bottom of my laptop claims it’s three-eighteen. The difference shouldn’t matter, but it does, because every minute that passes is one minute closer to seeing Star again, and time is currently moving at the pace of a sedated sloth.
I flip my pen end over end, watching it blur. I bounce my knee under the desk, check the time on my phone, then check the clock again, as if one of them is going to change drastically.
No such luck. The screen flickers, and Hudson’s face appears, taking up eighty percent of the monitor in glorious 4K. My oldest brother has the resting face of a military drill sergeant and the haircut to match. When he says my name in that low, “don’t bullshit me” tone, I have the urge to fuck with him just for fun.
“Evenin’, gentlemen,” Hudson says, and even though it’s just the three of us, he’s got that same edge he uses for boardrooms and congressional fundraisers.
Silas appears next, a beat later, with his screen set up at a weird angle so I mostly see the ceiling fan whirring over his head. He looks like he’s somewhere between a nap and a hangover, with a T-shirt I gave him for Christmas and hair that says, “I didn’t try, but I still look better than you.”
“Hey, losers,” Silas says. “Let’s make this quick. I got a date with whiskey and a ball game.”
Hudson ignores him and lasers in on me. “Tanner, we’re waiting on your report from the vendor walk-through. Did you find out if Morales BBQ can handle the extra headcount for the rodeo, or do we need to bring in back-up?”
I should have an answer, but all I can think about is the feeling of holding Star’s curvy body against mine last night. Every time my mind cycles back to that, my cock turns to stone in my goddamn sweatpants.
I scramble, opening the spreadsheet I haven’t touched since this morning. “Yeah, Morales says he can do up to two thousand, but he wants a fifteen percent bump on the catering fee.”
I recite the details from my screen like I’m reading a foreign language, my brain still fuzzy from last night. Every time I blink, I see Star’s name written across my skin in invisible ink, making it impossible to focus on vendor contracts or catering head counts.
Hudson’s eyes narrow, just a little. “Fine. Tell him he gets the bump, but it’s capped at fifteen percent, and he’s out for next year if he misses delivery by more than thirty minutes. Silas, what’s the deal with the main stage setup?”
Silas picks at a cuticle and mumbles, “Band is confirmed. I got all the permits for amplified sound until midnight. Security’s a non-issue, but the city council wants an extra insurance rider for the mechanical bull. Again.”
“They’re still stuck on that?” I say, only half-paying attention because I just got a text from Star.
“Apparently, some drunk dipshit fell off the bull at Oktoberfest in Midnight Falls and sued, so now the town council is worried,” Silas says, lips twitching. “Should I get the extra insurance or cancel the bull?”
I don’t answer. I’m too busy opening Star’s text.
Goddess
What should I wear?
I type out “You don’t have to wear anything,” then I think better of it and erase that.
Me
Something casual.
Goddess
See you later
Fuck yes, she will. I’m counting the goddamn seconds.
Hudson clears his throat, all business, but there’s an edge in his voice. “You paying attention over there, Tanner? Or you got somewhere better to be?”
I don’t even pretend. “I’m here.”
Silas lets out a low snort. “Yeah, but your brain isn’t. Dude’s got a woman on his mind.”
Across the screen, Cole leans forward like a damn gossip columnist sniffing out a scoop. “You holding out on us, Si? Spill. Who is she?”
Silas grins, all teeth and trouble. “A little bird, AKA my twin, told me someone’s been sweating it out at yoga class for a certain blonde instructor.”
