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“I don’t…love whiskey.” I glance down at my hands, grimacing. “It’s a recent development.”
“Means you haven’t had the right one yet.” Some life flickers to light in his eyes. “Means you haven’t had ours.”
I nod, sweeping hair from my face. “I can do it. I’m your girl. I’ll be the best damn bartender you’ve ever had in exchange for a bed.”
He gives a curt nod, turning to go, then changing his mind. “What’d you do before here?”
Fuck. It’s the last thing I want to talk about. Not because I’m embarrassed…but because others judge. Self-conscious thoughts slosh around in my brain, those irrational parts always waiting to slink out of the shadows. Rejection. Judgment. Disgust.
“Do you need a résumé?” When he’s silent, I slump back in my chair. “I’m a dancer,” I say and wait for his reaction.
His blue eyes flicker. Curiosity? Disdain? Either way, they’re unreadable. The man’s poker face is impressive as hell.
“What kind of dancer?” His voice roughens.
“The kind that makes it rain.” I arch a brow. “Curious? Want a dance?”
His face hardens. “Darlin’, I don’t dance.”
I wing up a brow. “You couldn’t afford me anyway.”
A muscle tics in his jaw. I smile. Riling him up is a joy.
I rise from my chair and take a step toward him. Releasing my breath, I stick my hand out, say, “We haven’t properly met. I’m Delilah.”
A long second passes, and then he takes my hand. “Cole.”
Cole.
My skin heats at his touch. His hand is rough and calloused and massive and all but engulfs mine. He’s so handsome. Raw and rugged and like no man I’ve ever seen before.
As he pulls his hand back, I notice the W-shaped scar, cut jagged across his palm.
“So, are you the one?” I bite my lip and look up at his face. His eyes are as blue as the Montana sky above the ranch.
Something strange settles over Cole’s broody face. “The one what?”
“Showing me around the place?”
Abruptly, he takes two steps back.
“My brother,” he grunts. His brows knit together. “He’ll handle it.”
I barely have time to lift a hand before his broad-shouldered form storms down the porch steps and disappears.
* * *
After a quick shower, I scarf a Pop-Tart then change into a casual dress and peep-toe heels. I brush my teeth and glance in the mirror.
Shit. The swelling’s gone down, but my cheek is still a nasty shade of yellow. I apply some cover-up, toning down the bruise. It’ll have to do.
I sweep through the Creek House and exit onto the porch where I find another handsome man waiting for me. This time, one without a scowl. And standing beside him is a little girl with wild dark curls.
“Let me guess,” I say. “A brother.”
“One of five.” And I wonder if I imagine the brief wince that crosses his face. Holding out his hand, he says, “If you stick around, you’ll meet all of us eventually. I’m Ezra.”
I hurry down the steps to meet him. “Delilah.”
