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In the center of the lot stood a tall signpost with dozens of hand-painted signs tacked onto it. The largest arrow said “Swimming Hole 200 feet.” The second largest said “The Pub 50 paces.” It pointed to a low dark brown building of unknown age or architectural style at the end of a sloping walkway.
I parked my car between Cameron’s SUV and a six-seater golf cart painted burnt orange and emblazoned with the University of Texas logo. Getting out, I examined the six-foot-wide set of actual longhorns from a cow bolted to the front of the golf cart. Boss Hog would have been impressed.
Cameron still sat in her SUV, fumbling around with the dome light on. I peered inside, thinking I’d catch her texting.
Nope.
She’d shoved the driver’s seat back and hiked her skirt up. She was tugging on a worn, battered pair of cowboy boots while cursing at the steering wheel and banging her knees. The red high heels she had worn all day lay discarded in the passenger seat.
When I tapped on her window, she jumped and let out a shriek loud enough to hear outside her vehicle. Then she started laughing, a hand pressed to her chest. The smile on her lips was glorious, none of the stress from her day evident. She tugged down her skirt and found her handbag. Watching her, a curious sensation built up in my chest. It caught me off guard. It wasn’t a stroke, but it was still fucking scary.
I hadn’t felt that particular twinge in a long time. Hopefully, a couple of beers would drown it out. Or maybe I should reconsider that trip to a cardiologist. Have the doctor cut the infernal thing out of my chest before it could do any damage.
She unlocked the car, and I pulled open her door.
“Like the boots?” she asked, extending a leg out of the vehicle and pulling her short skirt a few inches higher, exposing more of her creamy inner thighs.
“Yeah.” The word barely escaped my suddenly dry mouth. Because apparently, I’d developed a new fetish: Cameron in a short dress and cowboy boots. And the jerk that I am, my subconscious provided me with an altered image to consider—her wearing only the boots.
One-way ticket to hell, coming right up.
I dragged a hand through my hair and looked for something safe to talk about. Anything.
“What’s that?” I asked as soon as she got out of her car, jutting my chin at the colorful signpost. She led me around the post until she found a bright blue arrow with Reid-Morgan 1.25 miles painted on it.
“That’s mine. It’s so no one gets lost. You check the sign so you stumble home in the right direction at the end of a long night.” She traced the two last names with her fingertip, a wistful expression on her face.
“How did you earn a spot?” The crowded post was almost out of room for signs.
“Gotta be a regular, and then Lara’s dad decides. They have owned the bar and swimming hole property for three generations. When my late husband and I got married, Lara’s dad gave us the spot as a wedding present. Having a sign at The Pub is kind of a big deal.”
“Right up there with a star on the Walk of Fame in Hollywood.” I used my fake serious voice, and she punched me in the arm with a fist.
“Is it true that you have to pay to get a star on the Walk of Fame?”
“I think so.”
“That’s kind of a rip-off. Signs at The Pub are free.”
“Celebrities will spend money on crazy stuff. Bathtubs custom-made to their body shape. Gold-plated iPhones. Crystal-encrusted cars.”
We were following the dimly lit path toward The Pub. The low buzz of country music and people’s voices beckoned us closer.
“Why do you know this stuff?”
“My assistant sent me the list of stupid things celebrities spent money on when I was on the fence about raising prices on one of our products. The $33,000 crystal iPhone sealed the deal.” I reached to pull open the door for The Pub, but she stopped me, her hand braced above mine, holding it shut.
“I’m concerned this might not be your kind of place.” She winced and avoided eye contact.
“Why?” I searched her face, looking for an explanation.
“I’m trying to find you a fifteen-million-dollar house, and you’re talking about thirty-thousand-dollar cell phones. That’s why.”
Ah, the snob factor, of course.
“Is the beer cold?”
Although, right now, I’d take lukewarm donkey piss to help dull the persistent twinge in my chest that would not ease. Especially not when she looked nervous and bit her lower lip in a way that made me want to kiss it.
