“I expected you to say you’d be riding horses all day or rustling cattle. Something like that,” I tease, faking a country accent.
He flashes white teeth so fast it might’ve been a smile or might’ve been a threat. “That what you think a cowboy does all day?”
I shrug. “Isn’t it?”
He mirrors my shrug. “That’s mostly what my brother, Brody, does with Mark. They handle the cattle. My brother Brutal and I do the farming. My sister, Shay, does whatever shit she comes up with—soaps, jams, cakes, and such.”
I blink, trying to filter all the info he shared into something resembling a family tree. “So, you have three brothers and a sister? Brody, Mark, Brutal, Shay, and you?” I swear Olivia said there were two brothers, but the name Brutal is all that really stuck in my mind. Well, that and the image of Bobby throwing a hell of a punch, because that was definitely memorable.
“Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “Two brothers, one sister . . . officially. But the Bennetts, that’s who bought our ranch, took us on, and we’re thick as thieves now. There are three Bennett brothers too, Mark, Luke, and James. And they’re all married, Mark to Katelyn, Luke to my sister, and James to Sophie. Plus, Brody’s got Rix, and Brutal’s got Allyson and a boy, Cooper. And on her throne sits Mama Louise, riding herd over all of us.” He doesn’t sound like he minds that at all, which is surprising. He seems like a rogue, lone wolf somehow who doesn’t let anyone or anything tell him what to do.
But maybe I’m wrong about that? It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes, people are more complicated than they first appear.
Like Unc.
Almost reading my mind, Bobby asks, “What about your family? Big? Small? Normal? Crazy?” He goes back to eating while I think about how to answer that.
“Small and somewhere between normal and crazy, I’d say. Mom and Dad are both hippies who somehow managed to raise two kids. Mom owns an art gallery, Dad is a freelance environmental scientist, and my brother, Oakley, is the black sheep of the family.” I lower my voice as though I’m sharing a secret. “He’s an accountant. And his wife, Madison, is a forensic accountant. They literally discuss math and spreadsheets over dinner.” I shudder, my eyes wide in fake horror.
He chuckles, sipping at his tea. “What about Hank? What’s the thread from you to him?”
Isn’t that a knotted tangle of a snag? But I answer anyway, hearing the pain in my voice but not trying to hide it. “He’s my mom’s dad’s brother. I hadn’t seen him for a while because there was some drama I was too young to really understand a few years back. But when my grandfather died and I got older, it just seemed like it was time. I didn’t want to miss out on something—on Unc—because of things that didn’t have anything to do with me.”
Bobby places his hand over mine comfortingly. His skin is warm, soft, but I can feel the rough calluses along his fingertip where it dances over my knuckles. “I know Hank is glad you’re here. I haven’t seen him smile this much in years.”
I smile, having guessed that Unc isn’t really the smiling sort, but I have seen a softer side coming out the last few days. He’s been less grumpy about letting me help, and he even thanked me for doing so much. And he did leave early for poker, something Doc said was a first. Unc might have been surprised at my unexpected visit, but I think he’s glad I’m here now, which means I’m doing exactly what I’m supposed to do.
“I’m glad you’re here too.”
Blunt and bold, and suddenly, his touch is full of heat, not comfort. His finger traces down the length of mine, then back up and down the next. It’s as though he’s memorizing my hand, inch by inch, and for such a relatively casual touch, it feels immensely intimate.
His eyes follow his finger, devouring my skin, and I watch as his jaw tightens. He is a monster in cowboy clothing, a Wrangler-wearing good old boy who is so far out of my league, it’s not even funny.
I should move my hand away. I know I should. But I’m frozen in place, stuck in his magnetic pull that feels so good, sending tingles from my fingertips to places much more needy.
He threads his fingers through mine, effectively holding my hand like we’re kids on a date across the bar. Slowly, his eyes trace higher, eventually meeting mine directly. I know my gray eyes are probably as wide and bright as his are hooded and dark.
His voice is low and rough. “How about that tour tonight, Willow? I know a great overlook to watch the sunrise. You’d be able to get some beautiful shots there.”
God, every single cell in my body is humming in tune . . . Yes.
Luckily, I have one single, solitary, lonely brain cell that hasn’t been completely lost in the waves of Bobby Tannen pheromones the rest of me is swimming in. That one cell is screaming that I know better than this. Sure, maybe I’m interesting in an out-of-towner-fresh-meat challenge sort of way. But let’s be real. While I’m only here for a few months at most, it’s going to be awkward as hell when I fall under Bobby’s sway only to be left in the dust when I’m not shiny and new anymore. And there will still be the shows, where I’ll have to watch him sing in that no-big-deal, casually sexy way and feign nonchalance as women throw themselves at him. I’ll have to pretend I’m the sort that’s cool with a fling when I’m not. I’m so not.
And that’s my answer right there.
I untangle my fingers from his, pulling back. “Bobby, thank you. Truly. But I’m not here for . . .” My tongue ties at the heat radiating off him in waves. Anger? Disappointment? Shock? Something heavier, maybe? “I’m here for Unc, that’s it. I’m sorry.”
What the hell am I apologizing for? I don’t know, but it seems like the thing to say.
He nods, reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, and sets down a twenty. All in complete silence. It takes maybe three seconds, but it feels like three lifetimes.
“See ya soon, Willow. Sweet dreams.”
Hank’s is closed on Monday. Even Unc can’t go seven days a week. But Tuesday night, it’s burgers and fries across the bar.
“What made you want to be a photographer?” Bobby asks before taking a monstrous bite of his burger. He’s got on a blue shirt with a yellow logo that’s so faded I don’t know what it once said. Before he sat down, I saw worn blue jeans and dirt-kicker boots. He’s not dressed up tonight, but he still looks good. If I nuzzled into his neck, I think he’d smell like sunshine, sweat, and sex. Even though I’m across the bar, I take a deep breath, wondering if I can catch a whiff and confirm that hopeful dream.
I take out my phone, snapping a shot of my lemon wedge-topped tea reflecting in the shine on the bar and highlighted by the neon-lit beer sign on the wall. A quick caption, Sweet tea is the new coffee, and the yum emoji, and then I post. I don’t even wait for the first heart or comment, putting my phone into my back pocket without a thought.
“I think I always was to some degree. Mom taught me to see the world through different lenses, literally holding up gel filters and introducing me to artists who painted from various perspectives. I drew when I was younger, was okay at it, but I couldn’t get the realism I wanted. I joined yearbook as a way to participate without having to actually, you know, participate. And the rest is history.”
I wave a French fry around like a wand that magically transported me from high school to this moment. Bobby grins wolfishly, catching my wrist in his hand. Before I know what’s happening, he’s snagged the fry from between my fingers with his teeth, literally eating it from my hand. His tongue snakes out to lick the salt from my fingertip, then he chews around a self-satisfied smile.
“What the?” I balk, wiping my fingers on a napkin. Secretly, I’m delighted, which is dangerous.
He doesn’t react, instead focusing on our conversation like what he did was completely normal. “I looked up your blog. I started going through all the pictures, and they were cool. You’re really talented, but I had to stop.”
He swallows as if that’s some big confession.
My brow furrows. “Why?”
He shakes his head like he uttered complete nonsense.
I feel like it was pretty profound. Both that he gets why I do what I do and that he wants more than the snippets of me I share publicly. He wants more than more. I get the feeling he wants it all. All of me. The question is . . . why?
“It does,” I tell him. “It makes sense.”
His shoulders drop two inches I hadn’t realized they’d climbed up, almost like he was nervous. But he’s Bobby Tannen, star of Great Falls.
“Tour tonight?” he asks, setting another twenty down.
“I can’t. The tour or the money. That’s too much by at least twice.” I push the twenty back his way. “You got the last one, so let me pay tonight. I’ll let you in on a secret . . . I get an employee discount.”
He chuckles lightly but shakes his head, not touching the money. “No worries, I’ll see you tomorrow. Sweet dreams.”
Thursday night two-dollar drafts are in full effect. Along with the early evening crowd, everyone is clamoring for a bowl of Ilene’s chili, which is apparently blue-ribbon award-winning at the town’s annual chili cookoff six years in a row.
Ding. Ding-ding-ding.
Her bell hasn’t quit ringing all night as she serves up bowl after bowl. I peeked through the window earlier and saw four huge pots simmering on the stove top, which had seemed like a lot, but given how many Olivia has served, I bet we’re running low by now.
There’s only one thing missing . . . Bobby.
He’s been by every night this week. He sits, and we talk about everything and nothing, our days, our lives. I’ve heard stories about his family and family by extension, I’ve told him about adjusting to Great Falls and how he was right about the doughnut shop on Main Street, which really does have the best doughnuts I’ve ever tasted. He’s talked about farming and animals, music and songs, both others and his own. I’ve shown him pictures of my favorite places back in the city and made him one of my favorite mixed drinks, which he dutifully drank, even though it was pink and came with a lemon slice and a name like Girly Beer.
That was just last night.
“What the hell is this?” Bobby asks, his full lips screwed up in a scowl as he glares at the glass like it personally offended him.
“Just try it. I’m trying to get Unc to do a drink special, especially on the weekends. This is one I used to make at a bar I worked at. It’s cheap and sells like crazy, so the overhead is good.”
He sniffs it once and then again. “Lemonade? Beer?”
I tap my nose, pleased. “Good job. It’s light beer, for the ladies, you know, pink lemonade concentrate, and vodka. Over rocks is good, but tossed in a blender with some ice makes it into an alcoholic slushie.”
“You first,” he orders, offering the glass back my way.
“Despite the fact that I’m lazing around, eating dinner with you, I am still on the clock and can’t drink. Just try it.” I push it back his way, not missing the way his hand clenches the glass a little harder when I touch him.
His sip is tentative, like he’s fully expecting to hate it and have to gag it down to be polite. But his brows shoot skyward. “Fuck, that’s good.” He takes another drink, this time a big gulping one. “Aw, hell, you’re gonna have everybody in here drinking frilly pink drinks, aren’t you?”
The lift of his lips and the teasing glimpse of his tongue as it swipes out to catch every drop of alcohol says that’s not a bad thing.
“May-be.” My shrug is casual, though I’m delighted he likes it. If I can get Bobby on board, I know I can get Unc on board too. “If it helps Unc’s bottom line, it’ll be worth it.”
He eyeballs the glass again, teasing, “Can you drop some food coloring in it or something?” But he doesn’t seem to mind as he takes another drink. “Shit, that stuff is dangerous. You don’t feel it at all, like Kool-Aid sneaking up on ya.”
He sets it down, returning to the second garlic-crusted pork chop he’s been working on.
But it’s past seven now, and Bobby is nowhere to be found. I wonder if turning him down on that tour for the fourth time was the final straw, and I feel a thread of disappointment weave through me. I didn’t realize how much I counted on seeing him every night until right this second.
The door opens, and I look over hopefully, even though I hate that I’m doing it every single time the door makes its trademark creak. But it’s not him, just another two guys coming in for their weekly cheap beers. They hold two fingers up to Unc, and he nods back, already pulling their drafts.
Unc’s staying on his stool tonight, which I’m taking as a win, and he did agree to let me do a trial of the Girly Beer on Saturday, another win.
“Hey, Willow?” Unc says from his perch.
“Yeah?” I answer, instantly at his side.
“Could you sneak in the back and get me a bowl of Ilene’s chili before she runs out? I don’t want to miss out this time.” As soon as I nod, he goes back to talking to Richard and simultaneously pulling beers for Olivia.
Work and talk, he’s a pro at the multi-tasking. And now that he’s sitting more, I have noticed that his limp isn’t quite as severe.
“Knock, knock,” I call out as I enter the kitchen. Ilene is protective of her domain and I know she’ll be in the groove with the dinner rush, so I don’t want to disturb her.
As expected, Ilene is working away at the stove top, which is still covered with four steaming pots of chili, but now there are three empty ones on the floor by the dishwashing station. She’s definitely going through it.
“Hey, Ilene, Unc asked for a bowl when you get a second. Said he didn’t want to miss out this time.”
She hums, acknowledging me even though she doesn’t look my way. “Daniel . . . get me a bowl and a big Tupperware so I can pack Hank up a bit of chili for tomorrow too.”
A guy I’ve never seen before pops around the corner. “Sure thing, here ya go,” he tells Ilene, holding out two bowls, one heavy ceramic and one plastic, but then his eyes land on me.
“Hey, I’m Daniel, Ilene’s sometimes kitchen help. The few, the proud, the chosen,” he offers, holding out his hand after setting the bowls down. He looks to be a few years younger than me, with dark skin and dancing bright eyes. His smile is kind and friendly.
I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you, Daniel. I’m Willow, Hank’s niece and bar help.”
His face changes instantly, eyes going wide and brows going high, and he pulls his hand back like the mere touch of my skin burned him. He’s still smiling, but it’s less friendly now and more guarded. “You forgot the most important part . . . Bobby Tannen’s girl. Sorry, didn’t mean anything by anything, just introducing myself to a fellow co-worker, you know?”
My hand falls to my side as my brows knit together, “What? I’m not Bobby’s girl. We’re friends. He just stops by for dinner and a beer.”
Okay, I know it’s more than that. Those dinners have become the best part of my days, seeing the curl of his lip when he smiles, the hungry way he watches me eat, and how it feels like he’s barely holding himself back from jumping over the bar to get at me. And I like it, I’ll admit that, but I’m not his girl or anything.
Daniel nods, though it’s clear he doesn’t believe me, and holds his palms toward me. “Sure, whatever you say. But no offense, I’m gonna take his word for it because he’s a bit bigger and meaner than you seem to be. And you know, the whole town has seen him marking his spot at the bar every night. It’s quite the news bulletin.”
And with that, he hustles back around the corner. I turn to
Ilene, who’s finishing up Unc’s dinner. “Ignore Daniel. He’s a great help and a hard worker, but hoo boy, that man flaps at both ends. You don’t worry about a thing, Willow. You and Bobby are doing just fine taking things slow.”
And with that, she dings the bell, effectively dismissing me.
What. The. Hell?
Mindlessly, I set the bowl of chili and plate of cornbread by Unc, telling him that I set another bowl to-go on his desk. He nods appreciatively. At least I think he does, but I’m not really sure because my mind is spinning.
I see that a couple of drink orders have come in while I was in the kitchen and get started on those. Olivia comes up. “Those table four’s?”
I don’t answer that question, instead telling her what just happened in the kitchen. “Daniel said I’m ‘Bobby’s girl.’ I’m not his girl. What does that even mean?”
“Aw, that’s sweet,” she replies, grinning like she actually means that. But how could she? That’s crazy talk.
“No, it’s not. I’m not some territory he can piss on to claim.”
Her nose wrinkles. “Not when you say it like that. But it’s romantic, don’tcha think? He’s all in, claiming you far and wide when you haven’t even realized what’s looking you right in the face.”
“What’s looking me in the face?” I say, not willing to concede that it might be the tiniest bit sweet. In a Neanderthal, caveman sorta way. That I do not like. Not a bit.
Liar.
“He’s here,” Olivia whispers, but it’s somehow a squeal all the same.
I turn toward the door, mad but still excited to finally see him. The door is closed, not even creaking a bit.
Olivia’s finger is suddenly in my face. “That. You want to see him. You like him coming here to see you too. Hell, when was the last time someone made this much of an effort to get you to go out with them? I can tell you, for me . . . that was right about never. Just do the tour, go on a date with the man.”
“You mean sleep with him?” I bite out, not having forgotten about her earlier warnings about Bobby, no matter how kind and sexy and intriguing he seems to be.
Rough Country (Tannen Boys Book 3) Page 7