Page 49 of Pour Decisions
Clearly, things were changing, and my irritation over mention of Delia dating some lame ass guy only proved that. Even armed with that knowledge, I didn’t give a fuck if I’d look like a fool showing up in a costume that coordinated with hers.
I was doing it anyway.
The moment I pushed into Delia’s garage the following Saturday, my eyes locked on her, like she was a lodestone pulling me in.
Nearly every inch of her was covered by her dress, save her face, the smooth column of her neck, the gentle slopes of her shoulders, and the high swells of her breasts. The sharp ends of her collarbones dragged my gaze to a sunburst-shaped pendant hanging from the wide piece of black velvet wrapped around her throat. The sleeves of the dress draped off her shoulders and stopped right above her elbows, the black lace running the whole way around, before it turned to a burnt orange fabric that swept to the ground. Velvet slippers peaked out beneath the hem as she moved about the room, conversing with her guests.
She was stunning, looking like she’d stepped off the silver screen from one of those Old Western movies, a starlet greeting her adoring fans.
Even though I was having all kinds of them, I didn’t want to give Delia any ideas about where we might end up, and I had half a mind to turn tail and race out of here before she could spot me.
But I was too late, and I silently cursed as she turned that megawatt smile on me—and at the satisfaction that surged in my chest.
“Howdy, partner,” she said in a terrible Southern accent when she reached me. “You clean up nice.”
I scoffed. “My street clothes are nicer than this, Whiskey.”
“I like it,” she said, still grinning toothily. “We kind of match.”
I shrugged, attempting to play it cool despite the fact that wekind of matchedon purpose. “I didn’t know what to wear, and I just had all this lying around.” Not a lie, but so far from the whole truth it may as well have been on a different planet.
She quirked a brow. “Even the buckle?”
“Even the buckle,” I confirmed. “My dad rode bulls for a few years in his early twenties and won a couple championships. This is the buckle from one of those belts. Plus, you forget I was born and raised in western Idaho. This is basically everyday attire on my family’s ranch.”
“You’re telling me you wore a bolo tie and that hideous cowhide vest every day?”
“Faux cowhide,” I corrected. The Lawless ranch had long since stopped slaughtering animals, but that was a story for a different time. “And they were both also my dad’s.”
“Shit, QB,” she said, eyes widening as her hand flew to her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”
I waved her off. “It’s okay. You didn’t know.”
I still hadn’t worked up the strength to share the full story with her, to tell her how and when I’d found out. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to. It was more because I wasn’t ready to pry the lid open on that can of worms and spill my grief at her feet. I’dspent a lot of time over the last seventeen years carefully locking it away.
Plus, those weren’t the kinds of things you shared with business partners.
Then again, I showed up wearing what, from the outside, looked an awful lot like the other half to her couple costume. Somaybe, it was time I stopped lying to myself.
“Delia!” someone shouted from behind me, bounding up to us so quickly they knocked me into her. My hands on her upper arms steadied her, narrowly saving her from spilling her drink down her dress.
I whirled on the person, who turned out to be a twenty-something man several inches shorter than me, his floppy hair and long face giving him the countenance of a puppy.
“Watch where you’re going!” I growled at him.
“Sorry,” he said, though the grin never left his face. “Just coming to get my girl for pictures.”
“Your girl?” I choked out, glancing at Delia.
Her eyes were wide, face panic stricken. “He’s not…it’s not…” she started quietly, but the guy cut her off.
“TJ,” he said happily. “And you are?”
“Owen Lawless,” I grumbled. It took everything in me not to puff my chest out and stare down my nose at him.
“Wow,” TJ breathed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
I hummed noncommittally.
