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I chalked it up to my shitty attitude and rugged exterior. Women wanted me for one thing—a good time—and I never complained. Once they learned my last name, all they saw were dollar signs.

I had what some people called “fuck-you money.” Enough to tell someone to shut up and toss a hundred-dollar bill their way to seal the deal. Most of the time, it worked. Other times, it got me into bar fights and parking lot brawls. Another reason I didn’t come back to my hometown often—too much history, too many bridges burned.

But tonight wasn’t just another night. I had a lot to prepare for. Tomorrow, I’d be meeting a corporate hotshot at my first ranch, the start of my empire, to deal with the fallout from a mess I didn’t make. A bachelorette party, too much whiskey, and Marcus, my manager, thinking he could lay hands where they didn’t belong.

I hated cleaning up someone else’s disaster. Hated the idea of welcoming some city boy in a suit to my world even more. But here I was, nursing a bourbon and counting down the hours until sunrise.

I took another sip, letting the warmth spread through me. The bartender finally put his phone down, pretending to clean a spot on the counter that hadn’t been touched all night.

“I’ll take a bourbon on the rocks.”

A soft, feminine voice caught my attention. I looked up and found myself staring at the side profile of a woman who could make a saint sin. Chestnut hair spilled over her shoulders, and her lips stopped me in my tracks. They were perfectly painted dark red, making me wonder what the color would look like wiped all over my cock. My eyes drifted lower, tracing the curve of her waist and the way her jeans clung to her hips.

“Eyes up here, country boy.”

I brought my gaze to hers and found myself face-to-face with a pair of dark, doe-like eyes. Big, round, and framed by lashes that could hypnotize a man if he wasn’t careful.

A slow smirk tugged at my lips. She was going to be fun.

“A man can’t look? If it’s a crime, cuff me and take me away.” I held out my hands in front of me like I was really under arrest.

That earned a laugh. Her head tilted back, exposing the smooth curve of her neck, and the sound of her laughter stirred something deep inside me.

“Ah, they do say country boys have a certain charm.” She tsked, pointing a finger at me as if I were a misbehaving schoolboy. Then, without an invitation, she slid onto the stool next to me, even though the bar was far from crowded.

She wasn’t from around here—that much was obvious. Her jeans were crisp, straight cut, and fresh from the store. Her red boots were high-end, the kind you didn’t scuff up in the mud. And she was younger, at least by a decade. Where my skin was starting to show lines and my temples were streaked with gray, she radiated youth. Her skin was smooth, her body tight.

“What can I call you?” I asked, running my tongue over my bottom lip.

“Eleanor.”

Beautiful name for a beautiful woman.

“Tripp Watson,” I replied, offering my hand—palm up, open, inviting.

She eyed it but didn’t take it, rejecting me with a sly grin instead. “Okay, Mr. Watson,” she teased, leaning back in her seat, her arm draped over the stool’s backrest. The way she said mister sent a pulse straight to my cock. I’d love to hear her say it again, preferably in my bed.

“What brings you to town?” I asked, angling toward her, legs falling open to bracket hers. I rested one arm on the bar, the other casually on my lap, glass dangling from my fingers.

She tilted her head, studying me like I was a puzzle she was trying to piece together. Good luck. It would take more than a drink and some light conversation to figure me out.

Before she could answer, the jukebox hiccupped, signaling a change in songs. A familiar twang filled the air as Randall King’s “You In A Honky Tonk” took over the room. Someone turned up the volume, and the few people sitting at the bar grabbed their partners for a dance. Around here, if you couldn’t grapevine or weave, you didn’t belong.

Eleanor’s lips quirked in a knowing smile, and I stared back, waiting for her to give me an answer. Her eyes left mine, watching the couples on the dance floor move about, circling as they stepped in unison.

“This,” she said, a small smile curved her full lips. Her eyes stayed fixed on the couples dancing on the worn wooden floor.

Perfect. That was my cue, an answer I could use to my advantage. I had the ultimate move ready, one that would guarantee she’d be spending the rest of the night with me.

“Then let’s go, pretty lady,” I said, standing and offering her my hand.

She hesitated, her gaze flicking between my hand and my face. I could see the battle in her eyes, but curiosity won out. Slowly, she placed her slender fingers into my calloused grip.

Step one, complete.

Leading her to the dance floor, I took her by surprise, spinning her around in a light twirl. Her hair whipped through the air, leaving behind a trace of her scent—sweet and expensive, like designer perfume. I couldn’t stop myself from inhaling deeply, wanting to bottle it up for later.

Her chest brushed against mine as I pulled her close, my hand settling firmly on the small of her back.