Page 4 of Drunk Dialing

No fucking way.

He sat there with his teeth in his mouth, not having the slightest idea of what to say.

Fucking Treat.

“Hey, there, Jake.”

“Hey. I—How are you?” He stood, taking a deep breath and trying to be calm, holding out one hand to shake. If there was a tremor in his fingers, well, Treat didn’t say a thing.

“Good.” Treat shook hands, lingering on it. “Good. You riding tonight?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Then let me take you to dinner?”

“I—” He shouldn’t.

It was a terrible idea.

There was no way.

“When?”

“How about when you’re done here?” Treat checked his watch, which was still the same beat-up old gold watch with the leather band.

That was early, but he could be done fast. “Give me fifteen, sure.”

Maybe he could scoot out the back door of the arena.

“I’ll be back.” That dark brown gaze burned into his. “Don’t you run from me, Jake.”

If he wasn’t careful, he was going to spring wood, right here on the midway. Dammit.

“I ain’t scared.” He put all his bravado into it.

“You should be.” Treat sauntered off, and he looked around, trying to smile at the next lady in his line.

“Who was that, son?” she asked, and he smiled.

“An old friend. He heard I was in town. How are you?”

“I’m good. You were so close the last ride, hmm? I’ll be cheering you on.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate you, more than I can say.”

He was going to have a stroke.

“You’re welcome. Is your friend a roughstock rider?”

He handed her a picture. “No, ma’am. He ropes sometimes. You have a good day now.”

She had to move on or he was gonna lose his proverbial shit.

“You as well.” She waved and walked, and he signed the last handful of photos before his time was up.

Now he could run, because damn.

He grabbed his duffel, which held pretty much all his shit, including his bull rope, and made a break for it.

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