Page 6 of Hawt Cowboy
“Please tell me you’re still with Dalton.”
“I just left the arena.”
“Savannah!” Her voice could sand paint off a truck. “I’ll wager my first-born that he’s headed to a rodeo dance. Alone. Do you know what happens when alcohol and Dalton mix?”
I grip the wheel tighter. “He’s an adult, Marlene. Not a toddler with a rope toy.”
“He’s anasset, and one you’re paid to manage. If one video surfaces of him drinking, fighting, or worse … we lose the brewery account. Do you understand? You loseeverything.”
Her words hit hard. “I’ll handle it.”
“See that you do.” Click.
I stare at the glowing dashboard clock until it blurs. Ten forty-two. I should drive straight back to the motel, lock the door, and let him torch his own reputation. He’s the one addicted to spotlight fires; I’m just hired to sweep up the ashes. But Marlene’s threat hums in my ears like feedback:You lose everything.So, I put it in drive and find this damn rodeo dance.
♥♥♥
The sign appears on the right, painted plywood nailed crooked to a fence post:
RODEO DANCE TONIGHT — LIVE BAND & ICE-COLD BEER!
Perfect. Might as well be a neon invitation to career suicide. I swing into the gravel lot anyway, dust spiraling through my headlights. The bass from the band thrums through the floorboards. Yep, I’m already feeling like this bar scene is a trap — and maybe not for Cash, but for me.
I kill the engine and sit there, hands locked around the wheel.I do PR, not parole. He’s a client, not a cause. And absolutely not a temptation.
The words don’t stick. They never do when I think about Cash Dalton—his grin, the lazy drawl that sounds like sin made polite. A picture flashes in my head: my ex at a dance just like this one, laughter tangled with someone else’s perfume. Same boots, same swagger, same hollow ache afterward.
My stomach twists. “You’re not doing this again,” I mutter. “Get him and get out.”
I grab the tablet, shove it into my bag, and step into the Oklahoma night. Humid air wraps around me like a live thing. Strings of colored bulbs dangle from the tin-roof building, throwing red and gold halos across pickup trucks and boots stomping the dirt. Fiddle, bass, laughter. The smell of beer, sweat, fried onions—half nostalgia, half warning.
Inside, the crowd pulses in waves around a small plywood dance floor. And there he is. Hat tipped back, smile lethal, a bottle of something amber in one hand. A semicircle of women forms around him—sparkly tops, jean shorts, long fake lashes. They’re all reaching, touching, laughing like he’s telling the world’s funniest joke. Every nerve in my body tightens.
This is what you came for, Savannah. Evidence. Containment. Nothing more.
Except my eyes won’t cooperate. They track the flex of his shoulders when he throws his head back laughing, the easy roll of his hips when he moves to the music. He looks free—untamed and entirely himself. And I hate how that stirs something in me that hasn’t moved in years.
I stay near the door, pretending to check messages on my tablet. My thumb scrolls, but my eyes never leave him.
He’s every warning your gut ever gave you wearing jeans.
He spots me and his grin changes—less show, more intent.
He says something to the girl beside him and starts toward me, cutting through the crowd. Every step he takes makes my heart begin to race. This man is exquisite on a bull and in a honky-tonk bar. Now, he’s standing in front of me, all heat, charm, and danger.
“Couldn’t stay away, huh?”
“I’m here to prevent headlines, not make them.”
“Then you’d better stick close.” His voice is low, the kind that slides under the skin. He extends a hand, palm open, challenge gleaming in his eyes. “One dance. For optics.”
“I don’t dance with clients.”
“Guess you’ll have to make an exception.” He nods toward the nearest phone raised in a glitter-tipped hand. A camera flash bursts.
Damn it. Optics, right? He’s all lean muscle and lazy confidence, jeans hanging low enough to promise trouble.
I take his hand before I can think better of it. The band slides into a slow number, all steel guitar and honeyed vocals. His hand finds my waist, warm, solid, far too confident. The crowd cheers and I want to hide my face right now.
