Page 12 of Dirty Cowboy

I ignore that and nod toward a lasso hanging from a saddle suspended from the ceiling. "Did you plan this?"

He laughs. "No, you just have impeccable timing."

A server drops off my usual, and I take a sip, watching the stage as the next act gets ready.

"Does watching women strip ever get old?" I ask, half-joking.

Cash shrugs. "They’re reclaiming their confidence. It’s therapeutic." And he means it. The Wagner brothers turned Infinity from a Mafia-run sleaze fest into a safe haven for women looking for a fresh start. The men might throw their cash, but here, the women hold all the power. And they make a damn fortune doing it.

I lean in. "Did you go over the papers?"

Cash’s easygoing demeanor tightens slightly. "Yeah. There’s no way around it. Your grandfather’s terms are ironclad. He wants you settled, and he’s not signing over the ranch unless there’s a future great-grandkid in the picture. Engagement is the bare minimum."

My stomach twists.

Fuck.

A familiar guitar riff slides through the speakers, the intro to a song I know too well. My sister played it on repeat growing up. Then, the inevitable words drop:

Let’s go, girls.

The crowd cheers as a new dancer takes the stage. My attention flicks to her legs—long, toned, encased in white cowgirl boots. One hand rests on her hip, the other tipping the brim of a hat just low enough to shadow her face. The fringe along her shorts sways as she moves, dragging my gaze up over her curves, and up to the aquamarine navel ring glinting under the stage lights.

My pulse trips.

I know that navel ring.

I know that body.

She kneels at the edge of the stage, pumps her hips once, twice, then lifts the hat.

Fuck me.

My lungs seize, and the air in the club vanishes.

Emma Silver.

She removes a glove from her hand and throws it out to the audience.

Emma is stripping.

I glance over at Cash, who shrugs as if to say ‘I don’t know; I just work here’, before looking back at Emma.

A slow, wicked smile curls her lips, and I swear, the floor tilts beneath me. Disbelief crashes into something darker, something hotter, something that turns my blood to liquid fire.

The roar in my ears drowns out Shania Twain as I watch Emma own the stage like she was born for it, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

Fuck me, indeed.

Aloud knock yanks me from the depths of my couch-induced coma. One second, I’m blissfully dead to the world, and the next, I’m flailing, nearly rolling onto the floor in a mess of tangled blankets and misplaced dignity. I check the security camera, groggy, and then rush to the door, flinging it open.

Grace stands on my front porch, all bright smiles and high-energy chaos, smelling like floral perfume and rain-soaked pavement.

"Grace? Oh my God, what are you doing here? You weren’t in the salon when I came in earlier. I’ve missed you!" My words tumble out in a rush. "You won’t believe who’s in town."

She steps back, giving me a slow once-over. “Your mom told me you came back here to grab a few things.”

“I was supposed to go back to my parent’s, but I passed out on the couch.”

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