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“Absolutely,” he confirms, eyes never leaving mine.
The tenuous grip I have on my composure slips. He’s danger in a leather jacket, and I’m playing with fire. But it’s too late, the spark has been struck, and despite my better judgment, I can feel the slow burn of attraction creeping up on me, relentless and seductive. And as I look into Texas Blackwood’s eyes, I know I’m standing on the edge of something wild and reckless, and I’m not sure I have the strength to resist the fall.
The clink of glass bottles and the low hum of rowdy conversation draw me away from him. But tonight, it’s like every sound is amplified, reverberating through my bones with each heartbeat. The scent of spilled beer and whiskey lingers in the air, mixing with the headier notes of leather and musk that seem to follow Texas wherever he moves.
“Another round, darlin’?” His voice is a warm drawl over the din.
Picking up a bottle, I walk toward him, and my fingers brush his briefly—a jolt of electricity courses through my body. I pull away, hoping the tremble in my hands goes unnoticed.
“Sure you can handle it, cowboy?” I quip, aiming for casual, but there’s a quiver in my voice betraying my growing unrest.
“Never been one to back down from a challenge,” he replies, a smirk playing on his lips.
I force a laugh, keeping busy by wiping down the bar, though the rag in my hand might as well be sandpaper for all the roughness catching in my chest. With each pass, I steal glances at him, taking in the rugged line of his jaw, the way his hair curls just at the collar of his jacket.
“Tell me, Jane.” He leans forward, elbows on the bar. “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”
“Surviving,” I answer before I can stop myself, honesty slipping through my guard.
The word hangs between us, heavy and revealing.
“Looks like more than surviving to me,” he observes, his tone softening. “Looks like you’re fighting a war no one knows about.”
I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “Aren’t we all?” I counter, hiding behind sarcasm again.
But he sees right through it, his gaze never wavering.
“Maybe,” he concedes. “But not everyone’s got your fire.” There’s admiration in his voice, a note that strums along my spine, making it hard to stay indifferent.
“Fire can be dangerous,” I murmur, turning my back to him as I restock glasses, trying to ignore the heat that flares up at his proximity.
“Only if you get too close,” he replies, his voice a temptingly soft caress against the shell of my ear.
“Then maybe you should keep your distance,” I suggest, my words aiming for stern, but they waver, betraying the flutter in my stomach.
“Maybe,” he agrees, there’s a challenge in his tone that tells me he has no intention of backing off. “But where’s the fun in that?”
I want to argue, to tell him that ‘fun’ isn’t worth the risk, but the laughter in his eyes is infectious, and for a fleeting moment, I allow myself to enjoy it, to enjoy him. It’s a lapse, a crack in my armor, and part of me knows it’s a mistake.
“Life’s too short for caution, sweetheart,” he continues, leaning back now, giving me room to breathe even as his presence seems to fill up the space.
“Maybe for you,” I reply, finding my footing again, though it feels like walking a tightrope. “I’ve got too much to lose.”
“Ah.” He nods, understanding flickering across his face. “Family? Dreams?”
“Both,” I confess, and then curse myself for it.
This isn’t a man you give pieces of yourself to, he’s the kind who takes whole chunks, leaving you to pick up the scattered remains.
“Respectable,” he acknowledges, lifting his glass in a silent salute. “Here’s to dreams and family, then. May they never weigh you down.”
“Cheers,” I echo, tapping my own glass against his, the clear ring of crystal sounding like a warning bell in my head.
“Cheers,” I repeat silently, trying to steady the rush of blood in my ears, the traitorous desire to lean in, to share more than just a drink with Texas the man who’s somehow become the most dangerous thing in this gritty little bar.
“Who’s the new guy?” a regular, Joe, asks with a nod towards Texas. His voice holds an edge, like a knife flirting with the idea of a cut.
“Not new. He passes through from time to time,” I reply, keeping my tone noncommittal.
