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The guy ducked back through the doorway, disappearing momentarily, before he returned with a hand towel and started dabbing it against my wet chest to soak up the beer.
It’d been a good two and a half years since anyone had gotten that close to my breasts, and the shock of familiarity made me jerk backward and give him a censorious glare. “Really?”
“What?” he slurred, lifting his face and blinking cluelessly. Thick, stubby lashes fanned over the most electric blue pair of eyes I’d ever seen, and for a moment I was once again struck dumb, staring at them, because wow, those were some really blue eyes.
A second later, I scowled even harder at him for distracting me, and I arched my eyebrows tellingly before motioning to my chest where his hand still was, before he seemed to realize he’d been groping me.
With a chagrined wince-slash-grin, he jerked the towel from my chest and extended to my hand so I could snag it from him and pat myself dry.
“Sorry,” he offered again while I muttered curses under my breath, and beer dripped down my stomach into the waistband of my jeans. “I’ll buy you a new top. I swear. Just look me up tomorrow when I’m sober, and I’ll get all your details or take you shopping or whatever. Whatever you want, I’ll fix this. The name’s Beckett. Beckett Hilliard, and I live here. Just call the house and ask for me, and I’ll take care of everything. I’m not just saying that, either. I won’t flake out on you or—”
Lifting my hand to stop him because his drunken rambling was making me dizzy, I said, “Look…Bucket.”
“Beckett,” he corrected.
I blinked. “Huh?”
“My name is Beckett. Not Bucket.”
“Well, it sounded like you said Bucket.” I clenched my fingers around the damp hand towel I was still holding. Each second I stood here arguing with a bucket of Beckett, my cowboy was getting farther and farther away
He wrinkled his nose. “What the fuck kind of name is Bucket?”
I growled and threw up my hands. “Well, what the fuck kind of name is Beckett?”
His prickled offence was immediate. Drawing back his shoulders, he said, “It’s a family name.”
I rolled my eyes. Oh geez. He really was a filthy rich little frat boy, wasn’t he? I took an extra second to scan him over, and yep. Ick. Tall, slim and perfectly fit, he wore a collared polo shirt with one of those mini alligator patches over his heart, khaki pants and loafers. The only thing to complete the package would have been if his hair had been all gelled and slicked back into neat perfection, but the light brown mess was spiked out in a couple oddball places as if he’d drunkenly mussed it. Other than that, he resembled the epitome cliché of every rich son being funded through med or law school by his corporate CEO daddy.
Gag me.
“It means bee cottage,” he told me. “Or maybe dweller near the brook.” Frowning as if confused, he shook his head. “I’m not sure exactly. I found so many different meanings—”
“Oh my God!” I clutched my head, trying to block out the rambling. “I don’t have time for this. He’s getting away.”
Beckett—
not Bucket—stopped blathering. “Who’s getting away?”
“The cowboy.” I scowled at all the closed doorways in the hall. Which one had he taken?
“You mean Chance?”
“What?” I jerked my attention to Beckett so fast he reared backward. “You know him? The cowboy?”
After a couple blinks, he snickered. “Uh…yeah. Everyone knows Chance. He’s in the fraternity.”
Chance. That sounded about right. My cowboy could totally rock a name like Chance. Rugged yet loyal. Faithful and trustworthy, but also full of hard muscles and a look in his eyes that said he was a handful.
A sexy handful.
Sexy Chance was the perfect name for him.
But, wait. Had Bucket just said fraternity? Yeah, no. No way. Not my cowboy.
I snorted. “I don’t think so.”
Bucket frowned as if confused. “Cowboy hat, boots, plaid shirts with the snaps, Wranglers, big belt buckle. The whole shebang.” He cupped his hands around an imaginary buckle at his waist to demonstrate.
