Page 9 of The Mountain Man's Curvy Obsession
“Noted.” I say, already turning away. I pretend to catch sight of someone I know across the room, and mumble, “Excuse me,” as I make my escape. My boots thud against the sticky floor, weaving through clusters of locals in plaid shirts and women in glittery tops. The band’s tuning up now and a few stray guitar chords ring through the chatter.
I spot my brother Tanner at the bar, his broad shoulders hunched as he laughs with the bartender. I cut through a group of cowboys and slide up beside him. He slaps my back with a wide grin. “What are you having? ‘Bout time you got out of that damn cabin.”
“Beer. His tab.” I jerk my thumb at Tanner, nodding to a grizzled guy behind the bar with a beard that could hide a squirrel. I rest my elbows on the bar’s polished edge and scan the room again for Eva. My pulse ticks up just thinking about her.
Tanner, who’s four years older than me, and has the infuriating knack of reading my mind, leans in with a knowing smirk. “Eva’s at a table near the front with Mom and Zephyr.” He winks, and I give him a half-hearted scowl, not about to give away how I feel about her, but he doesn’t let it go. His eyes gleam with mischief. “Must feel pretty strange for her to be staying with Mom, huh?”
“What’s weird is the mail-order bride service sending her,” I mutter, grabbing the frosty beer the bartender slides my way. I tip it back and relish the bitter cold drink washing down the dust of the week.
“Who even does that anymore?” He chuckles, swirling his whiskey glass so the ice clinks. “Or, it could be, you two make a good match.” His tone’s serious now, and I study his face—he’s not being a smartass for once.
“Maybe.” I shrug, staring at the foam settling in my mug. “She lasted longer than any of my girlfriends.”
Tanner snorts, nearly choking on his drink. “I think the one who came closest to Eva was that girl from Boston, right? How long did she last?”
“Three months.” We both crack up and the sound is swallowed by the crowd’s roar as the band files onto the stage. Wren Cutler strums a test chord, and the room’s energy shifts as all heads turn toward the spotlight. That’s my cue.
Eva’s out there, gorgeous enough to stop a man’s heart. I can imagine her soft blond waves catching the lights and her laugh cutting through the noise. The men in here’ll be circling her like bees, and I’m not allowing that to happen without me in the picture. I push off the bar, beer in hand, and wade into the crowd to find her.
***
Eva
Tanner Jack’s is buzzing with high-octane hormones. I’m seated near the entrance with Slade’s mom and Zephyr, who seems a little distracted. The scent of cedarwood and spilled whiskey mingles with the faint perfume of Clara’s lavender-scented shawl as she pulls me into a tight hug, her bangles jingling softly against my arm.
“That outfit looks beautiful on you,” Clara says, with her eyes sparkling with pride as she leans back to admire the flowy, emerald-green dress clinging to my frame. “Wait till you hear Wren Cutler and his band. They’re just about to play.” She tilts her head toward the small stage in the corner, where roadies are tuning up over the crowd’s murmur.
“Thanks. I don’t know what I would’ve worn tonight if you hadn’t come through. My clothes are still in transit.” Clara waves a dismissive hand.
“Keep it. It looks far better on you than it ever did on me.” Her gaze flicks to Zephyr, who’s now openly staring at a striking woman leaning against the bar. She’s in a low-cut pink dress that barely grazes her thighs, paired with scuffed cowboy boots and a hat that screams confidence. Her blonde hair spills over one shoulder, and when she catches Zephyr’s eye, she flashes a coy, dimpled smile that makes him sit up straighter.
Clara nudges her son with a playful elbow. “Doesn’t Eva look nice tonight, Zephyr?”
He blinks, dragging his attention to me. “Oh, yeah, pretty, Eva.” He shifts, still distracted by the mystery lady, and cranes his neck for a better look. “Do you know who that is?”
I shake my head. “No idea. But that’s no surprise—I don’t recognize anyone here.”
Clara leans past me, squinting toward the woman. “That’s Sierra, honey. You remember her.” She swats Zephyr’s arm playfully.
His brow furrows, his calloused fingers pausing on his beer bottle. “Sierra Sage, you mean?” He steals another glance, subtly pointing with his chin. “That woman right there is Sierra? No way.”
Clara chuckles and sips her gin and tonic. “She’s all grown up, honey. You just didn’t pay any attention to her when she was ten. She’s probably twenty-five now.” I do a quick mental calculation. Zephyr’s forty-seven, so that would make him twenty-two years older than her. But judging by the way Sierra’s tossing her hair and giggling, the age gap doesn’t seem to faze either of them.
“Hey, Eva.” A familiar voice pulls me from my thoughts. I look up to see Eli Boone approaching us. “You came.”
“Sure did,” I say, smiling back, though my stomach flutters with nerves. I was hoping Slade would be here.
“Mind if I steal you for a dance?”
Feeling another twinge of awkwardness, I glance at Clara, but she waves me off with a relaxed smile. “Go ahead, sweetheart. Have fun.”
I think it over and decide there’s no use waiting for Slade to show up. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up, and I might as well make the best of it. “Love to.” I scoot out from the table and follow Eli to the dance floor.
“You sure look pretty tonight,” Eli says, with a light voice as he takes my hand and slides his other arm around my waist for a two-step. His grip is gentle but firm as he guides me through the steps. It’s been so long since I’ve danced, I’m worried I’ll step on his toes. My eyes dart to our feet as I try to keep up with the rhythm.
Eli chuckles softly, unbothered, his boots scuffing the floor in time with mine. The song ends without any major boot-crushing catastrophe, and the band shifts into a slow, soulful tune. Eli tugs me a little closer, his hand settles lower on my waist, but my heart isn’t in it.
My pulse quickens, not for him, but for the man I’ve been thinking about all night who just happens to be here. I break into a smile and watch the crowd part as Slade cuts across the dance floor with long, determined strides. I gulp, feeling my body temperature soar. He’s wearing a blue button-down, sleeves rolled up to reveal corded forearms that flex with every step. His jeans hug his muscular frame like a dream, the denim worn in all the right places.
