Undercover Engagement (Private Pleasures 5)

“Wow.” She crossed her arms. “Let’s hear it, then.”

“We don’t need to sweat the details.” He rolled his shoulders as if shrugging off a burden. “We don’t need to strategize our approach.” He pulled into Rawley’s parking lot. “We can just go with the flow. Whatever you wear, I’ll make it work. Whatever you say or do, I’ll make it look right.” After steering the Bronco into a space, he tossed his hat in the backseat and hung his sunglasses on the visor. Then he looked over at her. “I’m so damn good at this shit, you can’t possibly fuck us up.”

What an ass. She unlocked her clenched molars long enough to ground out, “Is that so?”

“Guaranteed. In fact, by the time we walk out of this place tonight, even you won’t remember I’m running a con.”

Chapter Seven

Swain would bet the pink slip for the Bronco that nobody had ever looked so regal in the glow of neon beer signs as Eden. He ran his thumb over her stiff fingers and mentally kicked his own ass for his last words to her before they’d left his car. Now they walked hand-in-hand up the wide wood steps leading to the front entrance of Rawley’s, and she refused to look at him. Those Lite-Brite colorful signs in the windows beckoned with beverage options as diverse as Kentucky Bourbon Barrel Ale and White Claw. The bouncy beat of “Jolene”—courtesy of Miley, not Dolly—danced out to the parking lot, but Eden held her spine ramrod straight and kept a remote expression on her face.

Guilt aside—and since when had he started feeling guilty about things?—he’d worked her into the perfect pissed fiancée, don’t-want-to-be-at-this-backwoods-bar-with-your-backwards-friends mood. Even the glittering crystal earrings she’d chosen hit the right note. They matched the overblown ambition of the engagement ring and played up the disconnect between his fake fiancée’s expectations and their fake reality.

He held the door for her, like a man minding his manners, and she walked through like a queen. If she felt self-conscious in the clothes, it didn’t show. She fucking owned the place, though she did pause to let him catch up. He took her hand, threaded their fingers together, and led her past the standing-room-only bar to the precipice of the short set of steps leading down to the main room. Like any self-respecting local joint, Rawley’s ran toward old wood—scarred but polished—and low light filtered down from naked bulbs suspended from the ceiling. A well-used pool table sat in one corner, with cues racked nearby in a converted whiskey barrel stand and chalk cubes scattered across the top. An incongruously modern TouchTunes jukebox glowed blue on the back wall, just beyond a hallway that presumably led to restrooms. Simple wood booths lined the long, far wall—all currently occupied. The front of the room served as a small dance floor and/or stage area, and a well-filled-out jumble of tables with chairs crowded the territory in the middle.

Junior sat at a central table with front-row access to the dance floor but otherwise hemmed in on three sides by other tables. He’d slung an arm along the back of the chair tucked up next to his that was occupied by a big-haired blonde. They faced the dance floor, looking comfy and cozy as they chatted and watched the antics of some barely-twenty-ones kicking up their heels to “Party in the U.S.A.”

Was it Miley Cyrus night? Why would God do that to him?

As the song wound down, he put his index finger and thumb in his mouth and let out a whistle loud enough to pierce the din. Beside him, Eden winced. Conversation didn’t stop, but p

eople looked over.

Junior leaned back in his chair and looked as well. Then a smile stretched across his face. “Swaaaiiiin! Get your ass down here, boy. You’re a round behind.” The jukebox switched to another Miley anthem. He let out a mental sigh as he stepped back to position Eden as the center of attention and followed her down the stairs.

Eat your hearts out, boys. This wrecking ball is all mine.

As if she read his mind, she aimed a glare at him over her shoulder. It probably had more to do with how he’d pushed her into the spotlight, so to speak, but either way, it left nobody in the room with any doubt about who was number one on her shit list tonight.

Junior stood as they approached and spread his arms wide to welcome them. “C’mon over here and set yourselves down.” He pulled out a chair for Eden and clapped Swain on the shoulder. “You must be Eden. This guy”—Junior clapped his shoulder again and ended it with a little shake—“sings your praises twenty-four seven.” Junior sent him a wink, as if to say, Lover’s quarrel? Don’t worry, man; I’ll help you thaw her out. “‘Eden’s so smart. Eden’s so pretty. Eden’s turned me into a better man.’”

“I’ve still got some work to do, apparently,” she replied, which provoked a laugh of solidarity from Lou Ann. “But,” she added as she settled into the chair and smiled up at Junior, “that’s sweet of you to say.”

Junior tipped his head to direct Swain to the seat beside Eden and slid his way between the tight-packed tables to get back to his chair. “Well, whatever doghouse this fool is in, I’m sure he deserves it, but don’t keep him there too long. He missed you something fierce. And before I end up in a doghouse of my own, this beautiful lady way out of my league is my better half, Lou Ann. Double D, this is Michael Swain, the new guy on our crew, and his fiancée, Eden…?”

“Braxton,” she supplied and shook Lou Ann’s outstretched hand. “Pleasure to meet your both. I mean, you both. It’s a pleasure to meet you and your husband.”

“Pleasure,” Swain chimed and tried not to laugh at Eden’s flub. Hovering over his chair, he took Lou Ann’s hand. The blonde’s hair wasn’t the only big thing about her. She had a rack that would put Stormy Daniels to shame and displayed it proudly in a hot pink halter top. Your both were hard to overlook. He kept his eyes on her friendly smile and slightly sympathetic brown eyes. When he sat, those eyes cut to her husband, and she gestured to the empty wineglass in front of her. “Baby, table service will take forever tonight. Would you get us another round and something for”—she gestured across the table—“Eden, Mike, what can we get y’all?”

“No, no.” Swain stood. “This round is on me. Junior, a Bud?”

He affirmed with a two-finger salute from under the blue brim of his Wildcats cap. “Lou Ann likes the Chablis.”

“One Bud, one Chablis. Got it.” He’d started to turn and make his way to the bar when Eden said, “I’d like a—”

“I know what you like, choux.” When she blushed, he blew her a kiss, then turned and walked through the crowd and gave himself a few hard-earned points for the exchange.

The bar was packed. It took some time to place his order, then more time for the thirty-something dark-haired, spray-tanned man he identified as Jeb Rawley to get on filling it. But it was all good, because the bait was at the table, and the longer he was gone, the more likely she’d draw some eager comer, wanting to take a shot.

Then it’d be game on.

A big guy hunkered up to the bar beside him. Swain glanced over and took stock. In this particular game, anybody on the field had the potential for play. Even a pawn could be useful. Mid-twenties, six-four, solid build going soft in the middle like a high-school linebacker who spent more time nowadays hitting the bar than the weight room. Reds cap turned backward over stringy brown hair, maybe hiding some thinning on top. From a no-doubt extensive collection of tank tops favored for showing off the guns, this dude had chosen a black one with a Harley-Davidson logo splashed across the chest. Baggy jeans with the chain on the wallet and black biker boots completed the ensemble.

Taking in the backup at the bar, Harley-Davidson expelled an impatient breath and flung an arm out to encompass the general chaos around them. “Jesus fucking Christ, would you look at this place? I can’t believe I hauled my ass over from Millersville to stand bodies deep in some dive just to get a damn beer.”

Not his first beer, or his first something, Swain guessed by the bloodshot eyes and the sloppy edge to his gesture.

The live music had started, and a pink-haired pixie with a voice like velvet commandeered a lot of the attention in the room by strumming a guitar and singing the shit out of “Love on the Brain.” Couples swayed together on the dance floor.