But this table is entertaining enough to captivate my attention. While the gaggle of women chats and laughs and drinks fancy cocktails, oblivious to their surroundings or the one woman at their table who seems disengaged. Her eyes flit around the room and she smiles dreamily like she has something more interesting going on in her head.
I wonder why she agreed to wear the tiara. Not that she doesn’t have the royal bearing of a duchess, all flushed cheeks, pouty lips, and blue eyes that seem lit from behind. But still. Who wears some sparkly headband in a cowboy bar and then hunches down to avoid attention?
The lighting inside the Hitching Post isn’t great, which has never bothered me before, but tonight it’s downright irritating when I want to know things. Like why she’s never been here before—I’d remember—and why she’s here now.
The women don’t fit in, all dressed to the nines in black pants, silk blouses, tailored jackets, short dresses—the kind of clothes that belong in a high-end city steakhouse, not a casual old place with brown leather banquettes and wagon wheel tables.
Every guy in the place turned around when they walked in like a Hollywood movie entrance. I felt the breeze when they opened the door. And even though I’ve probably sat here a hundred times and felt that door open a hundred more, something was different.
The light scent of perfume. Air moving in the room with each swish of long hair. The click-clack of heels on the hard floor.
Not to mention the laughter. I’ve heard enough bar cackles to know when people are drunk off their asses, but their laughter wasn’t like that. It sounded more like soft bells or windchimes. Like the five of them knew each other well and were giving their amusement its own shorthand.
I know I sound like a bad poet. I can’t help it. That’s just how it felt.
The one in the tiara went to the bar to order drinks, and that’s when the inevitable parade of drunk jerks sauntered over and tried to get her attention. She smiled politely, said a few words, and deftly turned away each unwanted advance. Like someonewho could give a speeding ticket and make the drivers feel like she did them a favor.
But I saw the way her teeth gritted as she forced each smile. The way she wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead when she was finally left alone.
My hands kept balling into fists, and I nearly leaped off my stool to grab one particularly handsy guy by the collar and haul him away from her. But it was clear the lady could take care of herself, and there’s nothing worse than an asshole being dragged away by an even bigger asshole.
Now, the group is a couple of drinks in. I know because of the number of empty cocktails and wineglasses on the table. What I don’t know is why the one in the tiara looks so lost in thought. There isn’t much to think about in this place.
“You know those ladies?” To my right, Anthony interrupts my gawking, and I turn back toward the bar. He’s shaving orange peels into a little bowl next to another filled with maraschino cherries. The eagle tattoo on his forearm flexes each time he slides the grater against the orange. He spent six years in the Marines before a bullet shattered his ankle. Now he flies planes for a skydiving company and tends bar at night. He’s a good egg and one of my few friends around here.
I shake my head. “Nah. Was gonna ask you the same thing.” Guys keep turning their heads, even the ones who’ve already been rejected. Not that I’m lining up next. I learned a long time ago to keep my life simple. I don’t need uncontrolled emotions in my life. Been there, done that. Now it’s just my ranch, this town, and my brother, who provides enough complications.
But I let my eyes draft to that woman again because it doesn’t hurt anyone to look. The way she carries herself is different from a lot of women I’ve met. Like she holds the weight of something important but doesn’t take herself too seriously. Conflicted. Complicated.
Dangerous.
“My money’s on a bachelorette party.” Anthony tips his head toward the one in the tiara. “No other reason to put up with that crown unless you’ve got four evil friends pulling the strings.”
I don’t feel like having Anthony give me shit about staring, so I wrench my gaze away and focus on the drink he’s making for me. He pours a generous shot of bourbon into a rocks glass, gives the orange peel a twist, and adds the bitters to my old-fashioned.
Sliding it across the bar to my waiting hand, he grabs a towel and wipes down his workspace even though it was already spotless.
“Guess that tracks. She looks appropriately miserable for someone about to be married,” I grumble.
Anthony chuckles and shakes his head. “Still as sentimental as ever. You ever gonna get that chip off your shoulder?”
“Prolly not,” I admit, lifting the drink to my lips. The bourbon stings my throat in a good way. The way that helps me forget my day and all the aggravation coming my way lately. Anthony knows better than to ask what’s bugging me when I order anything stronger than a beer. Bartender sense.
“Man, your dad did a number.”
“Didn’t everyone’s?”
“Fair enough. But I’m still rooting for you to get out from under it.”
“I know. Thanks, man.”
Two beefy guys signal from the other end of the bar. Anthony sidles over and pours them each a draft beer, waiting for the foam to settle before topping them off. They slide some cash across the bar, and he goes to the register for change.
It tells me a lot that they’re using cash. Means they likely got paid in cash, which leads me to believe they’re working underthe table for someone who’s skirting taxes. Good information. I may need it later.
The guy on the right, a big, bearded man wearing a faded navy-blue baseball cap, throws his head back and gargles out a laugh. The other one, more squat in build with a thin mustache and sun-weathered skin, snickers to himself. Anthony’s got a good sense of humor, but not that good.
When Anthony comes back, I tip my head in their direction. “Giving them your usual comedy routine?”
