“Go ahead and say it!” she erupts before continuing, her tone a snarl. “Why are you so dumb, Callie? You should have known better. You’re not good enough for this job...” She trails off, and I peer over at her, but she’s staring at her hand cradled in mine. She finishes on what’s barely a whisper, laced with pain. “Or anything. Leave it to good ole Reid to swoop in and save the day.”
Fuck. She looks so defeated right now. And I know I’m responsible for this. I’ve been a colossal dick to her, and really, it’s not her fault Tom chose her for this position. Obviously, he sees potential in her.
Somehow, I’ve become a damn bully. And to a woman, no less.
Stellar. Just fucking stellar.
I yank the handle with far more force than necessary, shutting off the water, and grab a clean towel from a small pile nearby. Carefully, I pat around the burn to dry her hand gently. Once the moisture is gone, I find that I’m unable to let go of her hand. Instead, I stand here, transfixed as I track my thumb’s movement. I continue to graze the unscathed area along the side of her palm and drag the calloused pad up to the pulse point in her wrist.
“W-what are you doing?” Her voice is breathless.
Her pulse is erratic as I skim my thumb over it in a sweeping stroke. “I’m sorry.” I raise my eyes to lock with her surprised ones.
She wrinkles her brow. “For what? You’re not the idiot who burned herself on a dang plate and—”
“Stop.” My tone is low yet commanding, and her lips part in surprise. “Don’t self-deprecate like that. Ever.” I press my lips thin before I add, “You’re smart, Callie. You’re just learning the ropes. And you have a gift with people. Customers love you. You’re funny and kind.”
Her gaze narrows, and the edges of her lips turn up ever so slightly. “Why are you saying these things? You’ve made it your mission to prove otherwise.”
“Because they’re true. I’ve been an ass to you when you don’t deserve it.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. Can you repeat that?”
“I’ve been an a...” At the slight quivering of the corners of her mouth, I pause and purse my lips. “Okay, smartass, I’m not repeating myself.”
“Better be careful. It almost sounds as though you…like me, Reid,” she teases softly, and I’m thankful her eyes are no longer shadowed by defeat and self-recrimination.
The words spill past my lips before I know it, and my voice drifts over us in a husky caress. “I like you more than you realize.”
In the far depths of my mind, I recognize that my head’s descending, bringing my face closer to hers. My eyes flick to her lips when she whispers, “You do?”
Our lips are barely a hairsbreadth away when I utter my response. “I do.”
Suddenly, she raises, closing the distance, and our lips meet in a kiss that’s carnal and passionate. My tongue sweeps inside, and the instant hers darts against it, I groan and release my hold on her hand to cup her nape. My fingers move to her hair and unhook the clip holding it up, tossing it to the floor. There’s a tiny ping of metal as it clatters to the floor. Instantly, I thread my fingers into her silky hair.
I press my body against hers, relishing in the sensation of her soft, lush curves melting against my firm, muscled ones. The way she clutches at my biceps, and the tiny little sound that erupts in the back of her throat when I nudge my growing hardness against her spurs me on.
“Reid? You back here?”
We jump apart, both of us breathing heavily, and I quickly say, “Smooth your hair,” before I call out to Tom, “I’m helping Callie in the kitchen.” She quickly bends down to grab her hair clip and attempts to twist it up and secure it.
It’s a shame that her hair’s tied back again. I prefer the slightly mussed version from my fingers gripping it during our kiss. I can’t manage to tear my eyes off Callie. The way her lips are rosy and dewy, her eyes still tinged with a haze of lust, and the way her chest still heaves slightly.
From me. All from me. I can’t restrain the fierce surge of pride knowing I’m the reason for her reactions.
Her fingers smooth over her hair one final time before she turns away to grab the broom and dustpan to sweep the ceramic shards from the shattered plate.
“I think we can close up,” Tom says from behind me.
I grab the towel again and let it drape from my hands and cover my lingering hard-on before I spin around to face Tom.
“Sounds good. I’ll get things in order,” I say.
His eyes flicker down to the floor before rising to mine in question. “Everything okay?”
“Yes, sir. Just a little accident. Nothing to worry about.” I force a light, casual air to my voice.
“Okay, then. If you and Callie are good, I’m going to head home.”
“Drive safely,” I say.
“You, too.”
His footsteps quickly fade away as he strides down the hall toward the back exit.
I slump in relief at the close call. The last thing I need is to get caught making out like a high schooler.
Especially not with the person who’ll be your new boss next month.
That thought puts immediate ice on whatever just happened between me and Callie.
Tossing the towel on the counter, I scrub a hand down my face wearily, barely registering the sound of Callie sweeping and disposing of the broken plate in the trash.
I need to put myself in check. Things haven’t changed. She’s still the same person who’s in the way of my goal.
Steeling my jaw, I keep my back to her because I know if I look in her eyes, I’ll weaken like a damn pussy. “I’ll lock up. Finish up in here, will you?” I don’t mention anything about the kiss. Nothing about how her taste is still on my lips.
With those words, I rush out of the kitchen, barely catching her muttered profanity with my name included in it.
And I can’t for the life of me figure out who I’m more angry with right now.
Her or me.
10
Callie
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I feel like this is a question where no is always the acceptable answer.
Times this question has not worked for me:
• Using an ice luge with 150 proof vodka.
• Not using double-sided tape for a low-cut shirt while going braless. Hel-lo, nip slip.
• Ordering the “butt buster burrito” from a sketchy Mexican food truck.
Let’s make one thing clear—with the burrito, I thought the butt buster was in reference to caloric intake, not the time I would spend in the bathroom.
And right now, I’m facing another one of those times that would rank in the poor life choices category.
Mel and I are standing in front of my full-length mirror. She has the same disapproving look she uses on her students. My eighth grade social studies teacher used to give me the same look every time he caught me passing notes to my friends. Seriously, do teachers go to school to perfect this look? “You’re twenty-seven, Cal, not an octogenarian. What is wrong with having a little fun?” she says.
I waggle my brows at her. “You know I think it’s sexy when you use such big words.”
Okay, I’m deflecting. In all honesty, I just want to curl up in a ball, eat chunky monkey ice cream, and binge-watch some shows. I’m cool with Netflix and Chilling with myself. My guy radar must be completely broken, especially since I can’t stop thinking about Reid or that kiss. I still don’t get how he can make my toes curl one minute, and then make me want to smack him upside the head in the next. Seriously, that man gives me major whiplash, and I’m not looking to be with someone who makes me feel like I’ve been in a fender bender.
“I take my statement back. Maybe you are getting old,” Mel says.
My fingers toy with the hem of my tank top. Maybe Mel is right. Getting out could be a good thing. It’ll at least get me out of my head for a little bit. Lord knows it’s a Quentin Tarantino movie in there right now. I’d like to gr
ill your Royale with cheese, Asshole Reid.
Okay, yeah, I need out of the house ASAP. “Fine. Where are we going?”
Mel had mentioned dancing when she barged into my apartment earlier, but we’re both in cutoffs and tank tops. Most of the clubs here have a dress code. Emphasis on dress. Which, after spending all day in pencil skirts and low heels, I’m really not anxious to slip into something more formal on my off time.
Her blond curls bounce on her shoulders as she rocks on her toes. “Line dancing.”
“Line dancing?” I stare at her. “You mean like yeehaw, do-si-do, skip to my Lou, my darlin’?” Mel has never once shown an interest in this. Or country music, for that matter.
“Two words for you, my friend: hot cowboys who can dance.”
“That’s five words,” I point out.
She swats me with the back of her hand. “Will you just shut up and envision it?” She wraps one arm around my shoulder and moves her other arm in an arc in front of her. I’m afraid she’s about to break out into Aladdin’s “A Whole New World.” “Sexy men in flannel who can twirl you around the dance floor.”
She’s using her hard sell tactic on me. I must say, I wouldn’t mind looking at guys in cowboy hats and jeans that hug their ass for a night.
“Fine. But do I have to wear cowboy boots?”
“Wear whatever shoes you want. But you’re going to fall flat on your face in flip-flops or heels. Just sayin’.”
She has a point. And I’m decidedly not a fan of public humiliation. I’ve had enough of that lately to last me at least till I’m eighty. And by then, I won’t give a fuck.
I pull on a fresh tank top and grab my cowboy boots from my closet to top off my look. Might as well do it right if I’m going to do it at all.
Forty minutes later, we pull up to Rope and Ride, the local country music bar known for its spacious dance floor. The sign on top of the place has a neon cowboy twirling a lasso. I’ve never been here before, but a lot of my friends come for bachelorette parties because it’s the only place in town with a mechanical bull. It wouldn’t matter how many shots of tequila I ingested. The chances of me getting on a metal monstrosity that can catapult me across a room are about the same as letting anything happen with Reid again.
Let me repeat. Never happening. Ever. Again.
Mel loops her arm through mine as we enter a building that looks like nothing more than a big barn. We show our IDs to the bouncer, pay the cover charge, and head inside. Rope and Ride resembles a rodeo arena where the dance floor is smack dab in the middle, surrounded by a bar top for patrons to watch the festivities. Hay covers the floor of the bar area, but the dance floor is worn wood with scuffs and tiny holes. Country music blares through the speakers, and rows of dancers line up, all moving in sync with the song.
Fish, meet out of water.
Top forty hits are more my jam than country is, but I recognize the song that comes over the speakers. It’s one that’s played in movies where there’s either a bar dancing scene or a night of bad decisions montage. Cute guys in cowboy hats sit and chat in packs, grazing around the room like it’s a watering hole.
Oh my God. I must be getting old because I sound like an anthropologist. Next, I’ll be thinking things like and here comes the rare specimen, male Homo sapiens. One with an extremely rare trait of chinnus dimpleus. Broad shoulders and thick biceps that make females experience spreadus thighus.
Yeah. Apparently, I’m sick in the head.
“See, what did I tell you? Perfect place to find men.”
She hands me a beer, and I take a sip. And then I blanch. It’s the same reaction every single time, no matter if it’s IPA, blonde, amber, or fucking O’Doul’s. I thought maybe if I worked at On Tap long enough, the taste would grow on me. Kind of hoped it would be like kale. Tolerable if not a little nauseating.
“Dude. You really need to get over your aversion to beer. You work at a brewery,” Mel says.
“There is no beer in this world that could change my mind.”
“I’m thinking I could find one for you, sweetheart,” a deep, husky male says. The scent of stale beer and peppermint waft under my nose, and I fight the urge to plug my nose. Mel is doing that wide-eyed, “holy crap this man is hot” look, so I school my features and turn with a smile.
And Mel’s look would be correct because this guy is cute. He’s about a foot taller than I am, has a nice jawline, and is rocking a black cowboy hat and jeans that show off his thick thighs.
“Oh, you think so?” I say. It might have been a while since I’ve last dated, but I at least recall how to flirt.
He smiles. Clearly, he likes a challenge. “Let me buy you a drink, and you can be the judge,” he says. “I’m James, by the way.”
He sticks out a big hand, and I take it. It’s warm and calloused. “Callie,” I say.
I look at Mel, whose lips are seconds away from parting and letting out a huge squeal, so I take Cowboy’s arm and lead him to the bar before she can open her mouth.
“Yeah, I’d like that.” And by that, I mean, I’d like a vodka tonic. No beer.
“I haven’t seen you around here before. This your first time?” he asks.
I cut my gaze to his. He has nice green eyes. But they aren’t quite as sexy as Reid’s. Shit. I need to stop thinking about him.
I lean my elbows on the bar top and say, “Is it that obvious?”
His chin juts toward my shoes. “Your boots aren’t worn in.”
They’re from Target. I bought them on a whim because really, do I put anything in my cart I actually need while I’m there? In fact, I’m beginning to regret these because I can already feel a blister starting.
“Is that going to be a problem?”
“No way. I’m the dance instructor here. I’ll help you get them broken in, in no time.” He projects a megawatt smile that makes my stomach drop to the hay on the floor. Maybe he can make me forget about Reid for a night.
I almost blurt out, “What else can you help me break in,” but I refrain. Barely. I clear my throat and manage, “I’d like that.”
The bartender slides over to us and asks what we’d like to drink. He’s also decked out in plaid. Everyone is here. My freshman year I had to take biology as a science requirement. My professor was obsessed with the red-winged blackbird and their brightly colored plumes used for mating. Plaid is the definite mating color for copulation in this bar.
Seconds later, a bottle of import beer is uncapped and pressed into my hand. I take a sip, and yup, it still takes every ounce of energy not to heave this up onto the floor.
Instead, I plaster on a smile.
“Delicious,” I say around my mouthful of beer. I’m honestly wavering on my next move here. I don’t know whether to spit it back into the bottle or vomit at this point.
Instead, I somehow manage to swallow it down. This in itself will go down in history as a miracle, ranking up there next to the immaculate conception and Moses parting the Red Sea.
James chuckles. “Are you always this bad of a liar?”
I wince apologetically and smile up at him. “So I’ve been told.”
“What do you actually want to drink?”
I like this. A nice guy wanting to do the nice thing by buying me a drink. Yet I’m not feeling that spark yet. Not even an inkling between the thighs. “Vodka tonic, please.”
James turns to me. Leaning against the bar, he watches me intently. “So what do you do, Callie Who Hates Beer?”
I trail the pad of my thumb around the rim of my glass. “I work at a brewery.”
He lets out a hearty laugh that wrings out my insides. “No shit?”
“Yeah. It wouldn’t be so bad, but I work with this insufferable guy.”
“Oh, yeah?”
I feel it coming. The dam of all my Reid annoyances is about to break free, and this poor guy is going to get the brunt of it.
“Yeah, he does everything in his power to make my life hell there. Then he’ll r
andomly hit you with nice gestures. Like who does he think—” I glance back at where I left Mel to make sure she’s okay until I make my way back there.
And I spit my drink out, the spray covering James’s shirt.
Because Mel is with a guy, doing her googly eyes routine. But it’s not just any guy.
She’s making eyes at Reid.
11
Reid
“Do you actually know how to two-step?” I take a swig of my beer and eye the woman beside me with amusement.
She’s cute, especially in her little outfit. The blue tank top brings out her eyes, and the cutoff shorts accentuate her slim legs, which disappear into a pair of dark brown boots.
The blonde nudges me playfully with her shoulder, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she smiles. “Nope. But I’m a quick learner.”
“Ah, so you figured I’d be a good instructor. That’s why you sought me out?” I’m enjoying the hell out of this—our banter—and it’s helping me to get my mind off…well, her, while I wait for Grayson since he’s running late.
“Well, the way you strolled up to the bar, just so, tipped me off.” She peers up at me, and that teasing lilt to her words washes over me and…
Nothing. Not a damn thing.
Shit.
Mentally shaking off the frustration and the lingering memory of the hottest damn kiss I’ve ever had, I force myself to regroup.
“Maybe we can start with a slow dance?” Her hopeful expression is endearing, and I’m grateful she doesn’t do the whole tacky pouting expression like some women do.
They’ve just begun to play a slow Miranda Lambert song, so I set my beer on the bar even though I’ve only drunk a quarter of it because, hell, when a beautiful woman asks you to dance, you dance.
I extend my hand, and the instant she slips hers in my grasp, I wait for a beat before leading her onto the dance floor. I wait because I was expecting—hoping, even—for her touch to spark something in me. To feel a crackling sense of attraction. Anything.
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