As I hit the last step, my eyes lift and meet his gaze, which is already pinned on me.
He’s leaning against the wall near the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest, looking like he’s about two seconds away from hitting someone.
His gaze drags over me, slowly, like he’s cataloging every detail and tucking it away for later. His face doesn’t move, but something shifts in his eyes when they land on the curve of my hips and the dip of my neckline.
I pretend not to notice, but the way he stares at me makes me squirm. Shifting on my feet, I smooth my palm down my thigh like I’m adjusting something.
“What in the fuck did you do to your boots?”
I smirk, throwing a leg out to show off my new boots. “It’s called fashion. Look it up.”
He scoffs, silent for a brief moment.
“You sure you wanna go to work looking like that, princess?” he says finally.
I lift my chin, forcing a cocky little smirk. “Why? Scared someone might steal me?”
His eyes darken, and for a second, the look he gives me makes my knees want to buckle. “Ain’t nobody stealing what’s already mine,” he mumbles, so softly I almost don’t catch it.
My heart slams into my ribs, but I toss my hair over my shoulder, trying to play it cool.
“Relax,” I say, reaching for the doorknob without looking at him. “I look hot, try not to have a coronary.”
He grunts, clearly unimpressed, and pushes off the wall.
“Come on. I’m driving you.”
Weeeee,I’m at my first job. I’m sooooo excited.
Absolutely not.
I stare from behind the bar, letting my gaze sweep around the place I call my job. Boots & Bourbon is exactly what I expected during night hours. A whiskey-soaked, cowboy-infested dive bar with dim lighting and the faint smell of sweat, smoke, and spilled beer filters through the air.
The wooden floors are scuffed from the years of boot stomping, and the walls are covered in old rodeo posters, taxidermy, and neon beer signs. There’s a section where patrons can ride mechanical bulls, and others can sit and watch as they drunkenly cheer on.
It’s loud, packed with ranch hands, town locals, and women doing bar crawls for their bachelorette party.
Reed is in his element. He’s fast as hepours drinks while flashing an easy grin that makes tips pile up. I don’t know how he does it, how he juggles three conversations at once, tossing bottles like some trick bartender, all while keeping everything running without breaking a sweat.
Meanwhile, I’m fucking surviving. I’ve been spilling drinks everywhere, I’ve dropped a handful of plates on the floor, the multiple conversations giving me whiplash and overstimulating me, and to top it off, dirty men have been catcalling at me.
I would suckerpunch someone in the throat right now, but we’re going to be a good girl and behave.
My first real job at twenty-three years old, fucking pathetic.
“Here,” Reed says, sliding a glass my way. “Table in the back. Try not to drop it this time, please.”
I weave my way through the thick crowd, balancing the tray carefully in my hand, trying to focus on not spilling a drop. How the hell am I supposed to get the hang of this if I can’t even hold a tray with one glass of beer?
I’m almost at the table, ready to drop off the drink and move on, when something pulls at me, a prickling sensationat the back of my neck, a familiar weight settling on my skin.
I glance toward the corner of the bar, and there he is.
Carter.
He’s sitting deep in the shadows like he owns the goddamn place, one arm draped lazily over the back of his chair, and a half-drunk bottle of beer in front of him.
His posture is deceptively casual, but everything about him radiates tension. His legs are spread wide, unapologetic, commanding too much space like he’s daring anyone to challenge him. His blue eyes are locked on me, heavy and unrelenting, cutting through the noise and crowd like none of it even matters.
