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She considers me, head tilted, like she's weighing more than just the question I asked. "Ask me at midnight."

"You keep saying that."

"Because I mean it."

I like her answer so much that I forget about fences, Mason's annoying arrogance, and everything waiting on the other side of tonight.

"So," Lainey says, glancing sideways at me over the rim of her glass. "What happens if I decide it wasn't a fluke?"

I slowly grin, already counting the minutes. "Then you and I are gonna ring in the new year and I promise you, neither of us will ever forget it."

"And that involves…" Her eyebrow arches.

I lean in close enough that I catch her breath catching. "You'll just have to wait and see."

She doesn't step back.

It's the thing I notice most, and I'll probably still be turning it over in my head tomorrow morning when I'm dealing with the ranch issues.

She holds her ground, chin tipped up, eyes steady on mine. She states, "You're awfully sure of yourself."

"I told you. Confident guy."

"Confidence and being right aren't the same thing."

I agree. "No. But I've got a pretty good track record."

"With what, exactly?"

"Knowing when someone is worth paying attention to." I let that land before I add, quieter, "And I don't usually stick around a conversation this long, Lainey. Ask anybody in this bar. I'll talk to a person for five minutes, buy 'em a round, and move on to the next thing that catches my eye. I haven't looked past you once since Carla said your name."

Something shifts in her expression, but I can't read her thoughts, and she declares, "That's either the smoothest thing you've said all night or the most honest."

"Can't it be both?"

She shrugs. "Maybe. I don't know." She glances toward the dance floor.

Troy's spinning Carla in slow, ridiculous circles, and she's giggling.

I slide my hand on her waist. "We've got fifty minutes. I guess then we'll both find out how tonight ends."

With a challenging stare, she replies, "Guess we will."

CHAPTER THREE

Lainey

Carla reclaims me for a lap around the bar, dragging me off to meet somebody named Dottie who apparently sold her husband's mistress the same boots I'm wearing. Through her sharp words, I can feel Jagger's gaze pinned on me from across the bar. When I try to sneak a look, he catches me, still planted against the bar, drinking his beer and ignoring the girl trying to gain his attention.

He's definitely trouble.

Cells I didn't know I had in my body light up to the point I feel giddy. I'm supposed to have an answer ready for a man I just met. And it's an answer to a question I'm still not sure he actually asked out loud.

"You're doing the thing," Carla says the second she pulls us away from Dottie.

"What thing?"

She smirks, "The thing where you try to act like you aren't looking at someone."