by Dylann Crush
The band wrapped up their set, and he took advantage of the break to check in at the bar.
“What can I get you, Boss?” The bartender rubbed at an invisible spot on the bar with a rag. “Have you tried a Lone Star yet? If you’re hungry, we’ve got specials for Rocky Mountain Oyster Days.”
Before Beck had a chance to ask about the seafood special, a guy in a dirty baseball cap on the stool next to him swiveled around. “So you’re Sully’s grandson, huh?”
“Yeah. Beck Holiday. And you are?” Beck asked.
“No one of consequence,” Charlie said, setting a tray of empty bottles down on the edge of the bar.
“Now is that any way to treat your sweetheart?” the guy crooned.
Charlie rolled her eyes. “Dwight here owns the gas station.”
“Oh yeah? Which one?” Beck asked.
They both gave him blank looks. “The gas station. There’s only one. It’s got the old Texaco sign and the ancient pumps.” Charlie unloaded the empty bottles behind the bar and picked up a new load of drinks before hoisting the tray onto her shoulder.
“Need some help with that?” Beck reached for an edge of the tray.
Charlie backed up before he could touch it. “And have you tip this over and cover me in a couple gallons of wasted beer? I got this.” She whisked the tray away, heading back into the fray.
“Is she always that ornery?” Beck wrapped his hand around the glass the bartender set in front of him and took a swig of the foamy brew.
“Nah, usually she’s ornery and mean.” Dwight thrust his hand at Beck. “Damn glad to meet ya. You need any advice about how to fit in around here, you just check in with me, ya hear?”
Beck shook Dwight’s hand, noticing the grease-stained fingers and the smell of sweat and oil that drifted off his coveralls. “Thanks, man.”
“You bet. Me and Charlie are kind of an item. You think she’s feisty now, you should get a load of her under the sheets.”
Beck raised a brow. He’d just met the woman earlier today, but Dwight definitely didn’t seem like her type.
“Not that I’m suggesting you try that or anything.” Dwight popped a toothpick in the corner of his mouth. “Like I said, we’re kind of a thing.”
“Yeah, I hear you. So you’re local?” May as well pump the guy for any information he could.
“Born and raised. I did spend some time in the army after high school. But my bum knee got me kicked out, and I came back here to take over the family business.”
Beck moved out of the way as a waitress navigated through the crowded bar with a tray full of beer and food held high over her head. The scent of barbecue lingered as she brushed past, on a hurry to somewhere. “Is this place always this busy?”
“Heck yeah. Weeknights you might only have a handful of folks depending on whether there’s music. But Charlie here’s been gettin’ the word out, and we got city folk comin’ all the way from San Antonio and Austin. Those college kids from San Marcos can whoop it up a bit too much from time to time. But Charlie, she don’t take crap from anyone. She’s got an iron boot.” Dwight smiled then gulped down half his bottle of beer.
Huh. Beck couldn’t wait to get his hands on the financials. Based on the action he’d seen so far, they were probably pulling in a nice profit. If he could build on that, max out the selling price…he could head back to New York with enough cash in his account to do the Morris Park project on his own.
“So what’s Charlie’s story?”
Dwight’s eyes narrowed, like he was suspicious of the question. “Whadda ya mean?”
“It’s just, my grandfather never mentioned her. Were they close?” Dwight didn’t need to know his grandfather had never mentioned anything to him, much less the attractive and competent blond.
“Tighter than two coats of paint. Why, Charlie’s been workin’ for Sully since the day her fiancé—”
“Hey now.” The bartender had stepped back in front of them to fill another pint from the tap. “Don’t need to go spillin’ everyone else’s beans now, do you?”
“Just bein’ neighborly.” Dwight nabbed his beer and vacated the stool. “If you’ll excuse me. I could piss over a ten-foot fence right now.” He ambled away, weaving his way through the crush of people like he’d been doing it all his life.
“By the way, I’m Shep.” The bartender gestured toward Dwight’s departing backside. “Don’t pay any attention to him. He thinks the sun comes up just to hear him crow.”
Beck nodded. “Beck Holiday. Nice to meet you. About Charlie…does she live around here?”
“Yep. The Walker ranch is over off County Road H. But I wouldn’t get any ideas about making a play for her.”
“I wasn’t. Besides, Dwight seems pretty possessive?”
Shep let out a snort. “He wishes.”
Hmm. Dwight was all talk. That made more sense. Charlie was obviously way out of the guy’s league. “Not that I’m interested, but what do you mean about not making a play?”
“Dude, she has brothers. Big brothers. And by big, I mean as tall as Trace Adkins and as ready for a brawl as George Foreman himself. Did you know he was born in Texas? Anyhow, all of ’em live around here except for Strait, and all of ’em know how to mess a guy up, if you know what I mean.”
Beck digested that piece of information. As the only child of two people who’d barely stayed together long enough for the ink on their marriage license to dry, he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be surrounded by family. He might work with his dad, but that didn’t mean they were close. Quite the opposite. He often suspected the only reason Holiday pulled him into the business was so he would have another vote to control if he needed it.
“Can I get you another beer?” Shep asked.
“No thanks. I think I’ll just hang out a bit and see how things go.” Beck pulled a twenty out of his wallet and set it on the bar. “If I don’t see her, can you tell Charlie I’ll be back in the morning? What time does she normally get here?”
“I don’t know that she ever leaves unless she’s chasing after that crazy pig.” Shep slid the twenty off the bar and handed it back. “Pretty sure your money’s no good around here. Now that you own the place and all.”
Beck shook his head. “Then consider it a tip.”
Shep pocketed it. “Thanks. Can I give you a tip, too?”
“Sure.” At this point, he’d take any advice, unsolicited or not.
“Charlie looks mighty tough, but she ain’t. She might seem like she’s got a shell as thick and hard as an armadillo, but inside, she’s like a marshmallow. She’s been tied up in this place forever, and it’s gonna be damn near impossible for her to let it go if it comes to that.”
“Got it.” He’d never seen an armadillo. Weren’t they those ugly, rat-looking rodents with scales? He’d have to look it up. But he’d caught the general gist of Shep’s warning. As far as Beck was concerned, Shep didn’t have anything to worry about. Making sure Charlie was on his team was the only way he’d survive the next three months.
Well, her help and maybe a miracle or two.
* * *
The band launched into a tune everyone could line dance to, and a mass of boot-scootin’, heel-stompin’, beer-buzzin’ customers took to the dance floor. Charlie leaned against the edge of the bar, smiling to herself as a busty brunette tried to pull Beck out for a dance. Soon some of her girlfriends joined in the effort, and they got him close to the edge of the fray.
After a few missteps, he caught on to the moves and almost looked like he was having fun. Until he bumped into the girl on his left when everyone else shifted right. Instead of tucking his tail and retreating to his seat, he laughed it off and tried again. The carefree attitude suited him. His new fan club must have thought so, too. They didn’t seem to have any issue with taking him by the arm or shoulder and helpin
g him get back into his groove.
The shirt Whitey had sold him stretched tight across his chest, and he’d pushed up the sleeves, exposing those strong forearms. Charlie could practically feel the hard ridge of muscle under her fingers as his shoulders rolled.
Get a grip, girl. She sighed, not wanting to admit that getting a grip was exactly what she’d been thinking about. Turning a cold shoulder to the dance floor, she nabbed a few dirty glasses from the bar and stacked them on a tray underneath the counter. Last call would be in about a half hour. She just needed to survive a little while longer.
The band switched tunes, and she looked up to see Beck heading her way, the trio of coeds hot on his heels.
“Come on, Beck. Just one more dance?” The gal who’d dragged him onto the dance floor tugged on his hand and whined.
“Sorry, girls, but I’m still in training. I’ve got a lot of work left to do tonight—right, Boss?” His eyes begged her to let him off the hook. Charlie almost felt sorry for him.
No harm throwing him a lifeline. “That’s right. I’ve still got to show you how to, uh, take a tap apart and clean it out.”
“Yep. See? All work and no play. Another time, okay, ladies?” He recovered his hand and mouthed “thanks” to Charlie. The trio turned back toward the dance floor, probably scoping out another victim.
“You card at the door, right?” Beck asked. “Those girls don’t look like they could be more than nineteen or twenty.”
“You must be getting old. They look younger and younger every year.”
He rubbed the pad of his thumb over his lips. “What are you, like twenty-two? You say that like you’re knocking on the door of middle age.”
She had to give the guy points for being so smooth. “Twenty-two, huh? I’ll give you a hint. I’ve been working for Sully for the past eight years. Twenty-two isn’t even close.”
“So my grandfather was a cradle robber? I can’t imagine he’d hire you until you could legally serve a beer. No way you’re in your thirties though. No freakin’ way.”
“My first job was working the register up front. I’d run the guest checks through and sell T-shirts and stuff. Don’t worry. He didn’t let me pull on a tap until I was twenty-one.”
“Rumor has it you’re the grease that keeps this big wheel turning.”
“Now that doesn’t sound like something you came up with on your own.” Charlie kept her hands busy with mundane tasks behind the bar. Stocking the cocktail napkins, adding a few more toothpicks to the dispenser—things that would distract her from the mass of muscle sitting across from her.
“You’re right about that. I’ve been polling the locals. Everyone around here loves you. Says you’re the only reason Sully was able to keep the doors open. I suppose I ought to thank you for that.” He put his elbows on the bar and leaned closer.
“I’ve enjoyed it.” That was the understatement of the millennium. Sully had saved her, in more ways than one. When he’d offered her a job all those years ago, he’d had no idea how he’d pulled her away from the edge. She’d found something to look forward to again, and she’d be forever grateful to the Holiday family, past, present, and future, for the role they’d played, whether they knew it or not.
She supposed, if she was feeling generous, that might mean Beck, too.
“So what do you call what they’re doing now?” Beck jerked his chin toward the dance floor where couples spun around the perimeter.
“Just a two-step.”
“A whatta?” His eyes crinkled at the edges with the force of his smile.
She focused her attention on a particularly stubborn spot on the glass she’d been drying, ignoring the flutter low in her belly. “Texas two-step. It’s not hard. I’m sure one of your new fans would be happy to teach you.”
“How about you?” He held out a hand.
She shook her head. “Oh, I don’t know. There’s a lot to do—”
“Come on, two minutes of two-stepping? I promise not to crush your toes.”
“I haven’t two-stepped in a long time.”
“Good. Then you won’t make me look so bad. What do you say?”
No. She had to say no. She didn’t have time to trip around the dance floor. Not when there were customers to serve, tables to wipe, and an annoying attraction she wouldn’t acknowledge. The “no thanks” hovered on the tip of her tongue. Just sat there, refusing to vocalize into a polite refusal.
He smiled. The dimple winked at her. Her toes curled. She’d always been a sucker for dimples. She swallowed the “no” she’d intended to give him.
“Fine.” She wiped her palms on the back pockets of her jeans and slid her hand into his. The kickback to the center of her nervous system rivaled the jolt she’d gotten the last time she’d shot her cousin’s 7mm rifle.
Shaking it off, she led him to a corner of the dance floor and spun to face him. “So you put your hand here.” She slid his hand right under her arm, to rest on her back, then put her hand on his shoulder. “And then you hold my other hand with yours, like so.”
The moment Beck cradled her in his embrace, her breath hitched in her chest, the air detouring away from her windpipe. Her lungs protested in a cough, and she had to pull her arms away from him to cover her flaming cheeks until her little fit subsided.
“You okay?” Beck asked, his face showing a mix of concern and amusement.
“Yeah, my breath just went down the wrong pipe. Song’s almost over—here, let’s try again.” She slid her arm up to clamp onto his shoulder. His body heat seeped through the thin cotton of his shirt, and something deep within her flickered. She became acutely aware of the way his thumb grazed her ribs right under the cup of her bra. Sweet Jesus. Maybe she should’ve listened to Darby when she’d said Charlie needed to get out more.
“Like this?” His hand clamped onto hers, and his fingers pressed into her back.
She nodded. Now for the footwork. “So the two-step is just a series of, well, two steps. First you take a step and bring your feet together. Then you take two steps like you’re walking from one point to another. The tempo kind of goes… Step together, slow, slow.” She demonstrated by taking a quick step backward, bringing her feet together, then taking two more slow steps.
The other dancers whirled around them as Beck tried again and again to execute the basic move.
“This is harder than it looks.” He stopped for a moment, letting his arms drop. “I think I’d do better at a dance club—or, even better, a slow song.”
As if on demand, the fast-paced twangy tune came to an end, and the band started in on a slow, bluesy ballad. Beck held out his arms, challenging her with a lift of the eyebrows. “This is more my speed. One more dance?”
She backed away, shaking her head. “I’ve got to start going through the closing routine. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
“Come on, humor me. This might be the one time I don’t look like a complete fool on the dance floor.”
She tried to say no. Really, she did. But then the dimple reappeared, and she found herself melting into his open embrace. She put a hand on his shoulder and let him take the other in his.
As his arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her tight against him, she inhaled. No doubt about the shirt being brand new. That fresh-off-the-rack scent hung over the lapel, but something else simmered underneath. A mix of expensive cologne, maybe some shower gel, and the unmistakable earthy scent of a male in his prime. She relaxed into his arms, enjoying the feel of being held by a man.
And not just any man.
A man who didn’t know her history, who hadn’t formed opinions about who she was or what kind of a guy she needed or what she could handle.
An unfamiliar sense of safety and security overwhelmed her. But instead of her usual reaction of wanting to get as far away as quickly as possible, she somehow ached for more. More o
f his nearness. More of his strength. More of his touch.
His thumb caressed the small of her back, and his hand dipped lower, pulling her in closer so their hips grazed. Unprepared for the way her body responded to his, Charlie became acutely aware of each one of his movements. Her skin pebbled as a buried need raced through her. She swayed out of time to the slow beat of the song.
“You okay there?” Beck adjusted his step to match hers.
“I’m tired, that’s all. It’s been crazy around here since Sully died. So much to do, and there never seems to be enough time to get it all done.”
His hand splayed over her back. “I know how that goes. Sometimes I wish there were an extra three or four hours in a day. I’d probably still spend them all at my desk.”
Charlie tilted her head to get a good, close look at him. Word around Holiday was that he worked for his dad’s company. But she had no idea what he actually did for a living. “What exactly do you do for work?”
“Build things. Tear things down. Rip them apart and try to put them back together again so they’re stronger, more streamlined.”
His hands were way too smooth to have seen the working end of a hammer. “When you say you ‘build things,’ you don’t actually mean you’re in the field, right?”
He shuffled them to the right to avoid a couple standing dead still in the middle of the dance floor. “Nah. All the building I get to do is on paper. But I do get to wear a hard hat every once in a while if I visit a job site.”