by Kim Law
Waylon cut a glance at Heather and saw her smiling broadly. She watched the TV as if she might not have seen the footage before, yet she grinned with the kind of confidence that he recognized easily. Confidence that said she knew how the scene unfolded, and that the underdog had come out on top.
“I mean, I know how the contest ended and all,” someone to the left of him said, “but I’ll tell ya, I totally had my money on the girls the whole time.”
“The girls definitely should have won,” another person replied.
“Nah, Cal had it in the bag from the get-go.”
As the conversations continued around him, Waylon watched as Cal appeared on-screen with Jill, taunting her as she took a break from swinging the sledgehammer, and he saw what the producers must have picked up on between those two. Chemistry. Combustible.
Whatever it was, they certainly had it. And Waylon wanted it.
He turned his attention back to Heather. He had an idea it would be like that with her.
The show cut to a commercial, and he began weaving his way through the crowd. He spoke with a handful of men and women he’d met before tonight, was introduced to several others, and generally felt good about being part of things. This was one of the things that had been missing from his life. The camaraderie in this town. It came across as genuine, and he found himself anxious to introduce his daughter to it. He’d been hesitant to share her existence at first. He’d wanted to make sure the job with Cal worked out, and then had decided to hold off on introducing her until after he’d closed on the house. The last thing he’d wanted was to be seen as an inadequate father, and bringing Rose out to the barn for his weekend visitations hadn’t provided the optimum way to present himself. But he had a house now. He could officially start being a part of things.
Heather appeared on the screen, and he stopped in the middle of a throng of people to watch. She wasn’t the focus of the scene, yet she was the only thing that captured his attention. It was the way she tilted her head when she was thinking. And how the tips of her hair always curled in as if they wanted to tickle her neck. He could look at her for days.
“Got to watch out for that one,” a man beside him said, and Waylon looked over to find a guy half a head taller than himself, several inches wider, and with as much hair on his face as on his head.
“You mean Heather?” Waylon asked. He didn’t know how he knew that’s who the other man was talking about, but he instinctively tuned in to the fact.
“She’ll drive you to drink, if you let her.”
“How so?”
The man’s mouth curved inside the copper-colored beard. “It’s her damned dimples. They’ll bring a man to his knees.”
Waylon smiled, aware that his own dimples flashed, and watched the guy notice. “I’ve already had a drink or two thanks to that particular attribute of hers,” Waylon confessed, and the big man laughed. “But I’m also not above giving her a taste of her own medicine.”
A meaty palm thrust out toward him. “I think I’m going to like you. I’m Len.”
Heather had laid eyes on Waylon thirty minutes earlier while he was standing on the other side of the bar, but he’d disappeared in the crowd soon after, and she hadn’t seen a hint of him since. Nor did she know how or when he’d come into the bar. She’d been watching the door all night, and she’d lay money on the fact that he had not walked through the front door. Yet he was definitely in the building. Even if she hadn’t seen him, she would have known. Her Waylon radar had been on full alert all evening, and the hair on the back of her neck had stood on end several minutes before she’d finally spotted him.
“Say no to Waylon,” she murmured softly. It was the same mantra she’d been repeating to herself for three days now.
“Say no to Waylon.”
Only, she knew that her defenses were down. Because no matter how many times she’d gone over it in her head, no matter how embarrassed she remained over how it had all gone down . . . she still wanted Waylon.
Sarah and Josie, who’d been sitting with her earlier, had been pulled away into other conversations, and not wanting to occupy a table where multiple people could sit, Heather moved to a vacated stool at the bar. Once there, she ordered a lemon drop martini and kept her gaze on the TV hanging on the opposite side of the bar. She also did her best to pretend that she wasn’t waiting for Waylon. But she was totally waiting for Waylon.
Her decision to work off-site for the last couple of days had backfired, and now she was even more worked up than she would have been had she just faced him straight on Monday morning. She’d gone to the man’s house to have sex. In a trench coat. And she couldn’t hide from that fact.
Nor was there any chance he’d let her hide from it.
Yet now she not only had to face her humiliation, but she somehow had to convince Waylon that she’d changed her mind and no longer wanted to have the sex she’d shown up at his house to have. Because she couldn’t have that sex. He had a daughter, and no matter what she told herself, if she slept with him, it would only be a matter of time before she started imagining playing house with him and Rose.
So no sex. And probably it would be best to have no flirting, too.
No Waylon at all.
Say no to Waylon.
Jimmy, the bartender, set her martini in front of her, and as Heather smiled her thanks, a male hand slid into her peripheral vision, two fingers extended to get Jimmy’s attention.
Heather’s shoulders tensed.
“I’ll have a Jim Beam, neat.”
She didn’t have to look to know the owner of the hand—or the voice. She downed half her martini.
Then the hand inched forward . . . a forearm appeared and rested on the bar top . . . a brick-hard chest pressed firmly against her shoulder . . . and finally, Waylon leaned down and put his lips next to her ear.
“You’ve been avoiding me, Heather.”
She took another gulp and stared at the TV. “I’m still avoiding you, Waylon.”
“Any particular reason why?”
She ignored both him and his stupid question.
“Ah, come on,” he said after several seconds of silence. “Don’t be like that. It was a really great move.”
He kept his voice low enough not to be overheard, and she appreciated the fact. She didn’t need every person there to know that she’d gotten in line to board the Waylon train just like all the rest of the women in town. However, the problem with him talking that low was that in order to speak quietly and still be heard, he had to get right up in her space.
“In fact,” he went on, his lips so close that his breath stirred the hair covering her ear, “it was the best move I’ve seen in a while.”
Heat engulfed her, and she finally looked at him. The area where they were sitting was so crowded that he could barely squeeze his arm between her and the guy sitting next to her, and he was leaning in so close that along with his cologne, she got a hefty whiff of his minty toothpaste.
It was the same kind she used.
“You thought that move was great, did you?” From what she’d gathered, people made moves on him all the time. No way was hers the best he’d seen. “I call bullshit. What it was, was clichéd and tacky.” She turned her attention back to the TV and muttered, “And one I clearly didn’t plan well.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t try it again.”
She choked out a laugh. “Not a chance, cowboy. I burned the coat.”
Disappointment filled his voice. “That’s a real shame.”
It was also a real lie. It was a Burberry trench. No freaking way would she burn it, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. Waylon’s drink arrived, and Heather found herself sneaking another peek at him.
He’d donned another of his customary plaid button-downs for the evening—rolled up to the elbows, as usual—and had brought out what looked to be his “good” cowboy hat. It also appeared that he’d taken the trimmers to his beard. His entire look implied he’d spiffed hims
elf up for going out for the evening, but what Heather wanted to know was whether he’d spiffed up because he’d been hoping to see her. Or whether this was just part of his regular maintenance routine.
Didn’t matter, she reminded herself. Because she was saying no to Waylon.
He took a sip of his bourbon before staring forlornly into the amber liquid. “I really did like that coat.”
A smile threatened at his dejected tone, but in the next second, she watched as he recovered quite nicely. He maneuvered more space for himself by leaning into the guy sitting next to her until the man was forced to choose between scooting over or sitting tilted at an angle, and after the guy shifted on his seat, Waylon propped both elbows on the bar. He then gave a nod to two women sitting across from him.
Both women giggled, and Waylon winked. And Heather wanted to elbow the man in the ribs. She couldn’t believe he’d sit right there beside her while flirting with two other women!
He turned his attention to the TV she’d been watching, being so casual about it that if anyone were to glance his way, they’d assume he was focused on whatever was happening on the screen instead of on her. Which, in a better frame of mind, she would appreciate. She didn’t need his attention on her. Nor did she want others thinking it was. Yet tonight, his avoidance irritated her. So she stared at the TV herself.
She ignored Trenton, who was making no bones about firing a what-the-hell-are-you-doing look her way from the other side of the room, and engrossed herself in the show. And when a commercial came on again, she held her breath. But she didn’t have to hold it for long.
“Any chance you’ll at least wear the shoes again?” Waylon asked. He still didn’t look at her.
“The shoes burned faster than the coat.”
That brought a smile to his mouth, and as he tilted up his tumbler, she caught his murmured, “Say the word and I’ll buy out a shoe store for you.” And though she tried to stop her laugh at his comment, she failed. It simply bubbled up and out, as if a pressure valve had been released.
With a hand to her mouth, she chuckled at the fact that she’d tried to seduce the man in the first place—only to find his daughter at the door instead of him. At the way she’d so childishly avoided him for days—only to then look forward to seeing him tonight. And at the “game” they were now both playing.
Only to want to play another kind of game entirely.
And then Waylon was looking down at her. And she was looking at him. And damn . . but she still wanted him. But she still couldn’t have him.
“Can we just forget it happened?” Her voice had turned breathy. “Please?”
He shook his head, his eyes warm on hers. “Not in a million years.”
“Then can we at least not talk about it? I’m still waist-deep in mortification over here.”
Though his hand moved as if intending to reach for hers, he stopped before touching her. Both of his elbows remained on the bar, but the fingers of one hand now dangled within reach of hers. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about,” he said softly. He ducked his head when she lowered her gaze to the bar top. “Nothing.” His eyes burned steady on hers. “Because it was fucking hot.”
The guy on the other side of him glanced over, but Heather ignored him. “I’m sure you’ve seen better,” she muttered dismissively. She really did just want to drop the subject. She might have been brave enough in the moment to show up at Waylon’s the way she had, but after three days of tormenting herself over the stupidity of the act, as well as thinking about all the other women who’d likely come before her . . . Well, she truly did suspect he’d seen better. Likely from those who’d actually seduced a man before.
“And I’m sure I haven’t.” One of Waylon’s fingers slid over the back of her hand, its calloused skin a sharp contrast to hers. “But I will agree to let it go if you’ll answer two questions.”
When she hesitated, their faces closer together than they had been before, he hiked his brow, and she could as good as hear him say that this was the best offer she was going to get. So she conceded. “Fine,” she grumbled. She’d known he wouldn’t just let it go. “You get two questions. Ask.”
He held up one finger. “What was on underneath?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
He blinked, not saying another word for an entire minute, and her inner femme fatale smiled in triumph. Some women would probably have whipped out sexy lingerie to wear for a trench-coat seduction, but not her. She’d gone there with one thing in mind, and she hadn’t wanted to waste time with lace.
Plus, she’d tossed all her lingerie after she’d learned that Danny Shaver had been cheating on her three years before.
The noise of the crowd lowered, and she glanced back at the television to see that Texas Dream Home had resumed, and it was at the part where she, Jill, and Trenton had been interviewed about moving in with Aunt Blu. “You’re actually missing a great show,” she told Waylon.
“I’m DVRing it. I’ll watch it later.”
That surprised her. He was going to watch it later?
How sweet.
Or maybe not sweet, her subconscious pointed out. He might simply be a reality TV junkie.
True. He could be that. But she didn’t think so. With little more than gut to go on, she suspected he would be watching it because of her. Which she found she liked a little too much.
Then she remembered that she was supposed to be saying no to Waylon.
“Two.” He held up two fingers, and Heather held her breath as she waited for his next question. “Coat or no coat,” he said, “do I get a second chance?”
“At what?” She played innocent.
His brow hiked again, and she forced herself to shake her head. Sadly.
“Can I ask why not?”
“That would be question number three, and I only agreed to two.”
She waited for him to argue, but the man stayed true to his word. With a slight nod, he acknowledged her point and took another drink. She finished her martini, and as they both watched the television once again, she heard herself asking if she could have two questions.
“Anything I want,” she clarified. “And you have to answer.”
“What do I get for answering?” His eyes were on her again, and try as she might, it was hard to keep the noise of the surrounding crowd in her consciousness. Somehow, just being around Waylon made her feel as if they were alone.
This was bad, and she knew it. She liked him way too much.
“What do you want?” she asked.
He finished off his bourbon as he contemplated his answer, then he looked around the bar, taking in the space as if he hadn’t seen it before. Heather scanned the room along with him. The building remained packed. Tables and chairs had been shifted around so they covered the small dance floor, every server employed at The Buffalo had been brought in for the evening and were either on the floor taking orders or at the bar picking up drinks or food, and every last TV was tuned to Texas Dream Home. But way in the back were the dartboards, and though that area had been occupied earlier in the evening, it was currently empty. There weren’t any TVs back there.
Waylon faced Heather. “You play darts?”
“It’s been a while, but”—she shrugged—“yeah.” She’d once been very good at darts.
“Can we talk while we throw?”
She liked that he put it as a question. “And you’ll answer whatever I ask?”
“Two questions.”
“Won’t take a lot of darts to get through two questions,” she pointed out. She also knew that she had far more than two questions. She wanted to know about Rose. And him. How? When? Why did no one know about his daughter?
“Then give me one game,” he said. “And we go from there.”
She wasn’t sure what he meant by “go from there,” but it wasn’t as if he was asking for that much. It was darts.
She eyed the television hanging above the bar. She had the show recording at her house as well,
so she could definitely step away for a few minutes. And she did want to know about Rose. But then she saw that Trenton still had her eye on her. As did Jill. Jill had left Cal’s side to sit in the booth with Trenton, and both were watching her instead of the TV. Heather stared back, knowing they had only her best interests at heart, but she also knew that she was going to walk to the back of the bar with Waylon. There were too many things she wanted to know, and she didn’t want to find them out later through the rumor mill.
Knowing she had to do this, she gave her friends a tight smile, hoping to convey that she was fine. That this was just a conversation, and that she had not changed her mind. She would not be doing anything stupid. She would not be sleeping with Waylon.
Her smile only seemed to put more worry in their eyes. But then, Jill gave a small nod.
Heather rose before she could change her mind, and Waylon followed her. They made their way to the dartboards, not talking as they slipped through the crowd, and when they reached the back, Waylon flagged down the closest server.
He looked at Heather. “Another drink?”
“Please.”
Waylon ordered, handed Heather a dart so they could both throw to see who would go first, then he held up one finger, indicating that she should ask her first question.
She threw a dart. It hit the board, but not impressively. “So Rose lives with her mother?”
“Actually, her grandparents. Her mother passed away a couple of years ago.”
Heather’s breath caught at the unexpected words. “Waylon, I’m so sorry,” she whispered. Her chest ached at the thought. Poor Rose.
“Thanks.”
“Rose . . .”
“She’s fine,” he said without her having to ask. His threw his dart, putting it inside the triple score in the wedge for four points, easily beating out hers. “She’s a tough kid.”
Heather knew from experience that she’d have to be.
She retrieved the two darts, then handed them over to him, and as she did, she noticed lines now etching the corners of his eyes. And though he seemed sad at the loss of Rose’s mother—or maybe at the pain his daughter had to live with—he didn’t appear overwhelmingly broken. Which made Heather wonder about the woman.