One
After working all day on the ranch he’d bought a few months back, Jaron Lambert sauntered into the Broken Spoke looking for three things—a steak dinner; a cold beer; and a warm, willing woman for a night of no-strings-attached fun. But as he sat down at one of the tables and surveyed the dimly lit roadhouse, he knew he would be settling on the steak and beer, then heading back to his place—alone.
It wasn’t that there weren’t any women in the bar or that they hadn’t paid attention to him when he entered. There were a couple playing pool and a few more sitting at two tables shoved together, looking as if they might be having a girls’ night out. One of them had even smiled at him with a come-hither expression on her pretty face. But none of them piqued his interest enough for more than a passing glance. Maybe all the hard work to get his ranch in shape was catching up with him. More than likely it was because none of the women were a certain leggy brunette with the greenest eyes he’d ever seen.
Disgusted with himself for wanting a woman he knew damned good and well he could never have, he decided that he’d have been better off calling a couple of his five brothers to see if they wanted to join him for supper. If he had, at least he would have had someone to talk to while he ate. But they all had wives and kids now, and he could appreciate them wanting to spend the time with their families.
“What can I get for you, handsome?” a young, gum-snapping waitress asked, walking up to his table.
“I’ll just have a bottle of Lone Star,” he answered, deciding to forego the steak and just have a beer. As soon as he finished draining the bottle, he’d head back home to heat up a pizza and spend the rest of the evening in front of the television.
“One beer coming right up,” she said, giving him a bright smile. After a minute, she returned, plunked down a napkin on the worn Formica tabletop and set the bottle on top of it. “You’re Jaron Lambert, aren’t you?” Her smile widened into a flirty grin when he nodded. “You won the World All-Around Championship at the National Finals Rodeo in Las Vegas just before Christmas, didn’t you?”
“Yup.” When she continued to stand there expectantly, he gave in and asked what he figured she was waiting on. “So you were there?”
“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “I couldn’t afford a trip to Vegas on what I make here. I watched it on satellite TV.” She gave him an enticing smile. “You sure looked sexy when they awarded you that buckle.”
He could tell by the look on her face that she was interested in more than just talking about his big win in Las Vegas. Unfortunately for her, he wasn’t. He had dodged more than his fair share of buckle bunnies—young women who flirted and hoped to sleep with a cowboy in possession of a championship belt buckle—over the years, and he was glad that part of his life was behind him. Hopefully with his retirement from rodeo after the finals a couple of months ago, that type of woman would lose interest in him and move on to another cowboy who didn’t care if he became nothing more than a notch on a groupie’s bedpost.
When he didn’t respond to her comment and expectant expression, she shrugged one shoulder. “Well, if you need anything else—anything at all—just let me know.”
“Thanks,” Jaron said, taking a swig of his beer as he watched the waitress move over to another table where three men sat. It was clear one of them was going to get lucky and be invited to join her for a night of fun after she got off work.
After downing his beer, he got several dollars out of his wallet and tossed them on top of the table. There was no sense sitting there paying for more beer when he had a cold twelve-pack in his refrigerator at home.
But just as he started to get up, he noticed a woman walk through the door and up to the bar. He uttered a word under his breath that he reserved for smashed thumbs and card games with his brothers as he settled back down in his chair. What the hell was she doing here?
She was wearing a red dress that fit her body like a glove, and there was very little left to the imagination about the size of her breasts or the curve of her slender hips. He swallowed back another curse as his gaze drifted lower. That little red number she wore ended about midthigh and gave him more than a fair idea of how long and shapely her legs were. But it was the shiny black high heels she had on that caused him to grind his teeth. Those four-inch spikes were the kind a man looked at and knew the woman wearing them was just asking for him to take her home and pleasure her throughout the night.