Page 5 of Sawyer

Mr. Mustached Maybe Cowboy was checking me out? I didn’t even notice.

Dottie’s eyes bore into mine. “Follow him.”

I glance across the bar. Somehow my eyes find his. My stomach does that nosediving thing again. He holds up a stack of square bar napkins.

His mustache looks more prominent from far away. I like it.

A lot.

My shirtissoaked. And why not flirt a little, enjoy myself a bit? If it’s awkward or weird, I can just come back to dance with my sisters.

He issomuch cuter than, well, every other man in existence.

Finishing what’s left of my beer, I head for the bar. It’s not quiet over here, but it is quieter.

Quiet enough that I can hear Mustached Maybe Cowboy say as he looks me up and down, “Aw, man, I got you good, didn’t I? I’m real sorry.”

His words drip with a honeyed drawl. I resist the urge to bite my lip. Okay, the accent is hot.

Really freaking hot.

“Don’t be. I’m the one who bumped into you.”

He holds out the napkins. I set my empty bottle down on the bar and take them, blotting self-consciously at my shirt.

“Or, really, I was pushed. Seriously, I’m so sorry about that. My sister?—”

“Is an enthusiastic fan of Johnny Cash.” A dimple pops in both cheeks as he grins. “I don’t blame her. ‘Ring of Fire’ will get anyone riled up.”

“That’s why I requested it. Although now I kind of regret that decision.”

“Regret Johnny?” He makes apssshsound. “Never. I was about to drop some money in that bucket myself, but you beat me to it.”

I grin, looking up. Our eyes lock again, and my internal organs all somersault in unison. There’s an intensity to his gaze that makes the sounds and sights of the bar sort of … fade away.

Maybe because his eyes are so,soblue? I’ve never seen a color like that before—the deep, vibrant cobalt of brand-new denim.

“That so?” I’m practically staring at this point. “What song were you going to request?”

His dimples deepen. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

I blush so furiously that it feels like my face is on fire. I still know how to flirt, right?

I sincerely hope I do.

Looking down, I notice the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, revealing impossibly huge, deeply tanned forearms. One of them is tattooed with a line of large, elegant script—Ella. His mom? Maybe his kid?

“Are you asking me to body-slam you again?” I nod at the dance floor. “I know I’m hard to resist out there.”

He laughs, the sound rich and real, and a rush of warmth moves through me. “Didn’t bother me. I have lots of experience being body-slammed.”

“You do?” My turn to laugh.

He shrugs. “Four brothers.”

“Ah.”

“Being body-slammed by a girl, though …” His eyes dance. “Way different experience.”

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