Page 179 of Lost Then Found
She narrows her eyes. “Okay then. If it’s yours, name your top threesongs.”
“Easy,” I say, counting them off on my fingers. “Cowboy Take Me Away. Sin Wagon. Wide Open Spaces.”
She blinks. “You rememberedSin Wagon?”
I smirk. “Knew it’d impress you.”
She shakes her head with a laugh, putting the CD back in the glovebox. “You’re theworst.”
“And yet here you are. Voluntarily in my truck.”
She looks out the window, trying not to smile. “Terrible decisions build character.”
I laugh, low and rough, and reach over without thinking—hand landing on her thigh, fingers slipping just under the edge of that sinfully short denim skirt, brushing warm skin that has no business being this soft. And while I may be driving, my brain is already halfway to pulling over and pushing her up against the nearest flat surface. I’ve missed her and I’m hanging on by a goddamn thread.
She shifts a little in her seat but doesn’t move my hand. Just glances at me sideways, the corner of her mouth lifting like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
It doesn’t take long before we pull into the gravel lot outside The Lucky Devil, Summit Springs’ last real dive bar. The building’s squat and stubborn, patched up so many times it’s basically a Frankenstein of plywood and peeling paint. The flickering devil sign above the door looks like it’s one bad night away from catching fire, and the porch light hangs crooked, like someone tried to fix it after one too many shots and gave up halfway through.
The place is packed. Trucks lined up in every direction, dirt caked on tires, tailgates down where people are still finishing their drinks before heading inside. You can hear the music from out here—low and thumping, some old country song with too much twang and a good rhythm.
I park Lucille toward the back, kill the engine, and pull the keys. As soon as we step out, the sound gets louder, clearer. I round the truck to meet Lark and my hand instinctively finds the small of her back before we even hit the door. No way in hell I’m walking in there without letting every manin that bar know she’s with me.
The air is thick with smoke and sweat and the sharp tang of spilled beer that’s seeped into the wood over the years. The place hasn’t changed much—dim lighting, scuffed floors, booths along the walls with duct tape patch jobs on the cushions. A jukebox flickers near the back corner, mostly for decoration since there’s a live band tonight, three guys on stage playing something fast, the kind of song you dance to with your boots stomping.
There’s a line dance going strong near the bar, boots hitting the floor in sync, while a couple of guys argue over a pool table off to the side. Dart boards hang crooked on the far wall, lit by a flickering Bud Light sign that’s been on the verge of dying since I was twenty. In one corner, there’s a mop and bucket parked next to a sign that reads, “If you puke, you clean.” Summit Springs hospitality at its finest.
We barely make it three steps before I spot Riley Hart behind the bar—one of Vaughn Hart’s boys, around the same age as me and exactly the kind of guy you’d expect to find slinging drinks in a place like this. He’s got that easy grin, the kind that makes you feel like you’re in on some inside joke, and a laugh that carries clear across the room. Of course, he’s already got two girls draped over the bar, leaning in like whatever he’s saying about whiskey is the sexiest thing they’ve ever heard.
A few heads turn as we walk in, more than one cowboy tipping his hat in Lark’s direction. I keep my hand right where it is—firm on the curve of her back—because tonight she’s mine, and I’m not going to be subtle about it.
Lark leans into me, her voice barely audible against the noise. “Where do you want to sit?”
I glance around, though I already know the answer. “Our spot,” I say, tipping my chin toward the booth in the far corner—the one we used to stake out back in high school when we’d sneak in with fake IDs and too much confidence. “I’ll grab our drinks.”
She tilts her head, giving me that half-smile that never fails to mess with my head. “A lemon drop, please,” she says.
I raise an eyebrow.
“What?” she crosses her arms.
I lean in just enough so only she can hear. “That’s the mostyoudrink I’ve ever heard.”
She grins and nudges my ribs with her elbow. “What are you getting?”
“Just one ranch water,” I say, sliding my hand down her back as we walk toward the booth. “Gotta drive us home.”
She nods, settling into the seat, her legs crossing under the table, her skirt hitching up just enough to test my willpower. “I’ll wait for you.”
I make my way to the bar and slap my palm on the counter, loud enough to cut through the music and the hum of conversation.
“Riley.”
He looks up, grin already spreading like he was just waiting for trouble to walk through the door.
“Well, shit. Boone Wilding. Didn’t know the prodigal cowboy was back in town.”
I smirk. “Didn’t know you were still working this shithole, Hart.”
