I spot him first, just inside the doors, flanked by two men I don’t recognize but somehow know are Griffin and Wilder. I didn’t get a chance to meet them last night before I took off, feigning a migraine.
The guy to his right is huge. Like, shoulders-for-days, probably-could-lift-a-bull huge. His beard is wild, streaked with silver, and his dirty blond hair is shoved into a man bun that somehow works. His shirt’s tight. His jeans are tighter.
The other guy’s a bit shorter, but still tall, pretty in a troublemaker way. Tousled blond hair, gray Henley, smirking like he’s broken hearts in three time zones and isn’t even sorry.
But then there’s Kade.
And suddenly… they’re both background noise.
It takes a second, liquid courage buzzing through me, to really look. But when I do, my stomach flips and something low and hot curls behind my ribs, traveling lower by the second.
Dark jeans. Thick thighs. Broad chest under a black tee that clings a little too well. Ink curls over one bicep, half-hidden under the sleeve. His beard isn’t as wild as it was yesterday, like he took time to get ready tonight.
He’s not doing anything special. Just walking, just existing. But my heart is beating like I ran here instead of drinking too much tequila, and my pussy is clenching around nothing but depression and need.
God help me, I want to climb him like a tree and never come down.
He’s just so… so…broad, and sexy, and annoyingly perfect.
And then there's his favorite hat, smashing down a mess of thick, almost-curls. I’ve never found baseball caps sexy. In fact, I hate the sport. And judging by the size of Kade Archer’s big, veiny muscles, I’d wager a guess that he’s not exactly tossing balls anywhere.
Slapping them maybe.
Against a very lucky woman’s ass as he pounds into—
My hand smacks against my face as if to shut my drunk brain up. Those are absolutely not thoughts we’re allowed to have.
Hellto theno.
I glance up just in time to see Kade sit at a low table on the opposite side of the bar. He doesn’t look around like he’s trolling for women or familiar faces, just focuses on his blond friend and smiles at something he says. I find that smile to be arrogant and stupid and sexy.
I grip the edge of the table, nails biting into the wood, heart pounding in my ears.
Of course he looks good.
Of course he does.
Because why wouldn’t the most infuriating man I’ve ever met walk into the bar on the one night I actually feel happy—and look like every bad decision I’ve never had the courage to make?
“Aww, fuck.” Loretta groans, effectively dragging my attention from the last place it should be.
“What?” Emmy says, tipping back a beer.
“They’re here,” Hazel says, grimacing.
My heart skips a few beats, and the bar spins. Did she notice her brother? Is he coming over here?
Do I want him to?
Yes. So much yes.
“Who?” Gemma slurs, both arms wrapped around the tequila bottle like it’s a teddy bear. “What’s happening?”
“Them,” Hazel mutters, tipping her chin at a group of broad-shouldered, denim-clad cowboys making their way through the crowd like they own the place. “Here come the boys from Cooper Ridge.”
Shay whines, “Already?”
“Whatever,” Emmy says, licking her straw. “They’re hot.”
