Page 3 of Untaming the Cowboy
She moved, through the growing crowd, an oversized black fan flashing open in her hand, white script blazing across it:Boots, Sage, & a Bad Attitude. Every snap of that fan hit like percussion. Her hips swayed to the beat, crop top exposingwarm mahogany skin, low-rise jeans hugging every line of her lower half. Beneath the white hat, her hair fell wild and full.
The band caught her energy and leaned in, rolling straight into Tonio Armani’s “Country Girl.” Now the whole bar was line dancing, and she was in the center of it. A slow, sly smile curved her lips as she danced, one hand raised, eyes daring the crowd to keep up. She dipped lower, her ass writing circles in the air.
Luc couldn’t look away.
She never glanced his way, but every slow roll of her body pulled at him, taunting. A woman like that didn’t ask for attention. She drew it. Heads turned. Hell, even the band missed a beat.
But she didn’t belong to anyone in the room. She hadn’t spoken to a soul except the bartender. That made Luc curious. Curious enough to stay longer than he’d planned.
By the time he checked his watch, it was close to midnight. He dragged himself up, tossed a few bills on the table, and headed out. Cool night air hit him as he stepped outside, the muffled bass from inside still pulsing through the brick walls. He climbed into his truck, the familiar rumble of the engine grounding him, though his mind hadn’t caught up. Some part of him was still back inside, tracing that curve of a smile he shouldn’t have noticed.
He sat for a moment, hands resting on the wheel. The noise of the bar dulled to a distant throb behind him, leaving just the hum of his own breathing and the low idle of the truck. He swiped through his playlist until Jason Aldean’s “Girl Like You” came on, the guitar’s slow thrum bleeding through the speakers as he slid the gear into reverse.
Then—
CRUNCH.
His body jerked. He slammed the brake.
“Shit,” he hissed.
Glancing in the rearview he noticed the small car sitting crooked a couple of feet behind his truck. He flung the door open and climbed out.
Gravel crunched under his boots as he moved toward the back of his truck. He stopped between the two vehicles, jaw tight, eyes narrowing at the mangled plastic of the other car.
A few feet away, the driver’s door pushed open. A woman rose from the seat, white hat tilted just enough to cast a shadow across her face. Denim clung, red bandana brushing the curve of her thigh. Under the parking lot light, her skin carried a glow that made Luc forget the rest of the world was moving.
Her.
The girl from the bar. The one who’d had heads turning. And now, standing a few feet away, she looked even more like a line dance goddess. Their gazes collided, and something inside him went still, heartbeat thumping hard in his chest.
She cocked her head. “Well damn, cowboy,” her Southern drawl curling through every syllable. “You just hit my car.”
Jason Aldean’s voice filtered out from the open truck door, singing about a woman who made a man forget his good sense. The irony wasn’t lost on Luc.
His eyes dropped to the crumpled bumper, then lifted back to her. “Maybe you should watch where you’re going,” he said, his tone flat.
Her smile thinned, gaze sweeping him once before she set a hand on her hip, chin tilting just enough to challenge him. The space between them tightened, the air thick with engine heat and something else he couldn’t name.
Luc didn’t know it yet, but the kind of trouble he’d sworn off just found him.
2
DAHLIA
“Maybe you should watchwhere you’re going.”
The nerve.
Dahlia blinked at him, momentarily stunned. “Watch where I’m going?Youbacked intome. What was I supposed to do—teleported away?”
“Might’ve been helpful,” he muttered, crouching to check her bumper.
“Wow. Hilarious. We’ve got ourselves a comedian.” She threw a hand toward the crumpled frame, disbelief giving way to heat. “Not even a ‘you alright?’ after you almost took off the front of my car.”
He glanced up at her, the shadow from his Cattleman’s hat hiding everything but the tight line of his mouth. “Didn’t need to. You’re standing. Talking. Clearly, you’re fine.” Something shifted in his expression, voice dropping to gravel. “But . . . are you? Hurt?”
Behind them, The Hen House door burst open, flooding the lot with chatter and laughter before slamming shut. The sign above the brick building flickered between red and pink, washing the line of parked trucks in a fluorescent glow. Cigarettesmoke curled from a man leaning against the steps, mingling with the greasy-sweet scent of onion rings from the kitchen vent as the band’s riffs bled through the walls.
