Page 68 of Her Remarkable Protector
Chase isn’t kiddingwhen he says he likes me in my everyday outfit. It’s nothing remarkable—a red lumberjack shirt and snug, classic denim—but the way he looks at me, you’d think I was draped in couture. I excuse his frequent glances at my cleavage, thanks to my bra fastened one hook tighter. And judging by how often his hands find their way to my hips, waist, or… lower, I’d say he’s more than a little obsessed.
As for his attire, he almost matches me—a darker blue lumberjack shirt paired with loose Levi’s. Loose doesn’t mean drab, though. Those jeans hang low, practically declaring, “Check out what’s back here!” And from the front? Let’s just say Elvis himself might’ve paused to take notes.
Chase keeps the destination a mystery as we drive. The grin plastered across his face makes it clear he’s loving this far more than he should.
“Come on, tell me,” I try to pry the answer out of him. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” he says, his tone infuriatingly smug.
“Santa Sophia?”
“Nope!”
“Give me a hint!” I almost beg.
“Fine.” He pretends to think, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “It’s a place where your Wranglers will fit right in.”
“Chase, that’s not a hint. That’s geography.”
He laughs, his shoulders shaking with it. “Okay, okay. It’s somewhere with character. And no, I don’t mean me.”
I groan. “So, we’re either headed to a saloon, a rodeo, or some cowboy karaoke night, aren’t we?”
“You’re warm.”
I turn to him, narrowing my eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re adorable when you’re guessing wrong,” he shoots back, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement.
Before I can argue further, we pull into the lot of a quaint western bar. Its weathered wooden exterior glows under the string lights draped along the porch. The sound of country music drifts through the air, mingling with bursts of laughter from inside. A small sign above the door reads The Rusty Spur.
I blink, taking it in. “No way.”
Chase grins as he steps out and rounds the truck to open my door. “Surprise.”
The moment I step inside, I’m hit with the smell of barbecue and old leather. The place is packed but not overwhelming. There’s a jukebox in the corner, a small dance floor to one side, and an eclectic mix of people—from ranchers in dusty boots to a guy in a Hawaiian shirt arguing with the bartender over a game of pool.
“Unreal!” I say, spinning to take it all in.
“Well,” Chase says, sliding a hand to the small of my back, guiding me further inside, “the buffalo wings are to die for.”
We find a table in the corner, tucked just far enough away from the jukebox to avoid the full blast of the country tunes but still close enough to enjoy the lively energy of the bar.
The waitress arrives, her cowboy hat tilted back, a pen tucked behind her ear. “What can I get y’all?”
I eye Chase, gesturing that he’s in charge.
“Buffalo wings, fries—make it two orders—and fried pickles. Oh, and two whiskey sours.”
The food arrives quickly, a chaotic spread of golden, crispy glory. The wings are slathered in sauce, the fries perfectly salted, and the pickles… heavenly.
Chase dives in, immediately grabbing a wing and tackling it like it’s a personal challenge. “You know,” he says between bites, “there’s a method to eating wings. You twist the bone just right, and boom—the whole thing slides off clean.”
I raise an eyebrow, popping a fry into my mouth. “Wow, you should teach a class. ‘Wing Eating 101 with Professor Chase.’”
“Hey, don’t knock it. This is a skill.” He holds up a bare wing bone triumphantly, then gestures to my plate. “Go ahead. Give it a shot.”
I grab a wing and twist. Or at least, I try to. Instead, the bone snaps, sending a piece of chicken flying. It hits Chase’s arm before landing unceremoniously on the table.
