That’s when I see it. My mind squirrels.
“Hank.” My heart flutters. Ignoring the traitorous little organ, I set my hands on my hips. The best disappointed ex-wife move I can muster. “Your ring.”
“It won’t come off.” He grunts, steamrolling over my protest. He lifts a tan hand, causing the silver band to flash in the firelight. “Gained too much weight.”
Liar. I narrow my eyes at his hard, post-divorce vengeance body. Gained too much muscle is far more likely.
I blink away the thought. I won’t dig into what it means. Don’t want to. Don’t care.
“Hank.” Frustration simmers in my veins. I don’t want to spend my Christmas fighting. I don’t want to spend my Christmas withhim. “You need to go.”
“Stop telling me to leave, Bell.” His voice is low, rough.
“We both can’t stay here,” I remind him quietly. I cross my arms, digging my fingers into my biceps. “Please, Hank. I need this.”
He peers at me, his blue eyes full of questions, like he’s looking for an answer in the memory of my face. Then, after a resigned sigh, he moves through the house, collecting his bags. As he meanders closer, I catch a whiff of his scent. Coffee and pine and horses.
There’s that ache again. Stomach. Heart. Thighs.
He’s leaving. Good. As relieved as I am, I’m also sad about it. A fact that pisses me off.
Time flies, but it feels like I was in that bar with my cowboy only yesterday.
That night, I watched the cowboys.
Thanks to a flight delay, I was stuck in the middle-of-nowhere Montana. I ventured out of my hotel and went to the locals’ bar on Main Street. Buck’s Bar. I parked myself at a high-top with my sketch pad and a vodka soda. It’s said inspiration is found in the strangest of places, and for me, that place was Silverwood. It wasn’t my usual scene, but the view was spectacular.
I watched as dusty and rough-around-the edges cowboys played pool. Blushed when they called me ma’am. Their casual hat tips altered my heart’s beat.
When the bells over the door jingled, I twisted in my seat. My gaze snagged on a man who looked like no one I’d ever gone for before. Six foot three, tall, rugged. Chiseled jaw, intense eyes. I shamelessly stared.
He was a walking heartbreak in a chambray shirt and brown Stetson.
His boots were sharp across the sawdust floor. The way he worked the crowd, slapping backs, buying drinks, told me he was a regular.
When the cowboy settled at the bar with a group of friends, I leaned low on the table, resting my chin on my forearms, and drank him in. I preferred to sketch with pencils, but this man? He could convince me to get out the clay and sculpt. I wanted to document every beautiful detail.
Pulling out a pen, I tore my gaze from the handsome stranger and sketched him quickly. Biceps, belt buckle, and those bright blue eyes. When I was finished, I tipped back the last of my drink. Considered my options. That pulse down below.
It had been a while and I was feeling brave, if not horny. So I tore the page from my sketch pad and headed his way. I’d always been one for knee-jerk, for snap decisions. Maybe it was the artist in me. Never wanting to settle, hating to wait. Tonight wasn’t any different.
I slid his sketch across the bar top and looked him in the eyes. “Sure look good in those Wranglers, cowboy.”
He laughed, and the sound lit me up. Bright and deep and bold. Like he’d been happy all his life. He took me in, attention raking down the off-the-shoulder sweater and ripped jeans I’d tossed on before leaving my motel room.
“That’s a hell of a line, sugar.” His face changed to a serious earnestness as he studied the drawing. “Hell of a drawing too.”
“I’m an artist.” I pinched my fingers together. “Only minimally starving.”
Another beautiful laugh. A shiver rolled down my spine.
“Hank Blue.” He held out a big hand.
Heat snapped between us as his rough, calloused palm pressed into mine. I committed the feel to memory. “Well, Hank Blue, I’m Bellamy.”
“Buy you a drink?” He stood, carefully folding, then tucking the drawing into his back pocket.
The gentleness with which he did so made me shiver.
