Page 11 of Dirty Cowboy

“I get it.”

I check my watch, even though I have nowhere to be. If I stay here another second, my body’s going to betray me in ways I can’t afford. "I should get going.."

Then, she throws a grenade right at my chest.

"So, do you want me?"

I nearly choke. My gaze sweeps over her, from those distracting pink toes, up over the curves I’m desperately trying not to notice, before I finally land back on her eyes.

"For the case," she clarifies, the teasing lilt in her voice nearly killing me.

Right. The case.

I clear my throat. "Like I said, ask your brothers."

She’s fire. Completely intoxicating, and impossible to ignore. I should step away. I really should. But instead, I lean in just enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume. Then, Tristan’s voice echoes down the hall, and reality slams back into place.

I take a step back, forcing a smirk. "Good seeing you again, kid."

Kid.

Shit.

The second the word leaves my mouth, I know I’ve screwed up. She’s not a kid. Not even close. My mind replays every inch of her. The way her curves fill out my shirt, the flush on her cheeks, and the subtle, perfect way her body moves, like a goddess.

Yeah. Definitely not a kid.

I force myself to leave, head straight for the first thrift store I see, and grab the first shirt in reach. Only when I’m at the counter do I bother looking at the garment in my hand.

"JoJo?" The cashier eyes the fabric skeptically.

"Excuse me?" I glance down.

It’s covered in pink and purple unicorns. Christ.

"Yeah, I guess," I mutter, too distracted to care as I slip on the shirt.

"Matches the boots," she muses, clearly amused as she rings it up.

I grunt. "Thanks."

She snips off the tag. "You’re welcome."

I head outside, exhaling hard before pulling out my phone. I call Cash Wagner and we schedule a time to meet up that evening. If anyone can help me figure out the legal mess of my inheritance, it’s him, because the last thing I want do do is get married. Plus, his family owns the Infinity Club chain, which makes them perfect for our meeting spot.

Because nothing says ‘let’s discuss my financial crisis’ like a high-profile law firm that doubles as a strip club and sanctuary for women escaping their pasts.

When I step through the club’s doors, a wave of familiar scents slams into me. Sweet hay mixed with the mustiness of old wood and worn leather. Whiskey lingers in the air, blending with the sharp bite of perfume. The neon lights pulse in time with the bass, casting jagged shadows over the faces of cowboys and city strays alike.

It’s a different kind of wild here—controlled, but barely. The twang of guitars rolls over the room, thick with Western energy, like a bronc bucking in the chute, just waiting for the gate to fly open. A dancer struts across the stage in a vest and a pair of chaps, hips swaying to the rhythm.

I weave through the crowd until I spot Cash at a corner booth, lounging like he owns the place—which, technically, his family does.

"Good to see you. What the hell are you doing in the city?" he greets me, eyes sharp with knowing amusement.

"Helping the Silvers with some family stuff." I slide into the seat across from him.

His smirk deepens. "Still got a thing for Emma?"

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