No White Knight

To just get to be a kid, reckless and irresponsible and free.

I guess that’s part of why I can’t stay mad at Sierra.

She saw her chance to get out, to live without all this responsibility crushing her, so she did.

Trouble with her is, she never grew up at all.

I’m lost in my thoughts—and nearly jump out of my skin when a tall frame slides onto the stool next to mine, body heat rushing against me like a hot gust of summer breeze.

Crap.

It’s Holt.

He sits there in a pair of jeans that love his thighs a little too much, his hips slouched forward, an open flannel over one of those clingy undershirts that look damn near obscene on him.

The white ribbed cotton is so thin I can practically make out his pores under it, muscle for days, his swarthy skin changing the color of the material.

“Libby,” he says. I don’t even have to look to hear the smugness in his growling voice. “My eyes are up here.”

Holy Toledo.

I’m sorely tempted to chuck my beer right in his leering face.

“Don’t even start, you—” I jerk my gaze up to those hot amber eyes and stop mid-curse.

They’re charmingly weird. I’ve never seen anyone with eyes his shade.

Almost like whiskey, deep and gold and liquid, but when they catch the light they glow like mellow gold.

It’s easy to get caught up staring at them, wondering just how the hell any man can have eyes like his.

Easy to get tricked, too.

There’s a reason they call it fool’s gold.

“All right, all right.” He props his knuckles against his temples, leaning on the bar—and speaking of fools, he’s sure grinning like one. “Did you ask me out to ogle me, or is this just a garden-variety date?”

“This ain’t a date in any way, shape, or form,” I hiss, fingers clenched against my beer hard enough to make the metal can dent. “God, do you have to be a dick about everything?”

“Force of habit. Possibly genetic. I can try to find my off switch, if you want.”

“Pretty sure I can find a punch with your name on it if you don’t,” I mutter, and he laughs, loud and full and free enough to cut over the noise of the bar.

“You’re never satisfied till you get to punch someone, are you?”

“So I got a little aggression to work out. So what?” I shrug stiffly.

“Mm-hmm.” He subsides into a chuckle, shaking his head. “You know, back in New York there was this fad that was all the rage for a while—smash rooms. Can’t remember if that’s what they’re officially called, but basically you pay up to spend half an hour in a room full of marble busts and a lot of other breakable things. It’s just you, a baseball bat, and all the rage you’d want to vent.”

I perk up. “Yeah? I could use some of that right now. I’m gonna die of a stress headache, I swear.”

“I take it that means your sister’s been giving you trouble?”

“Doesn’t she always?” I mutter grimly and sigh. “Listen, I was hoping you could give me a little advice. Since you know what it’s like to get testy with your family over inheritance crap, I mean…”

He cocks his head, musing. “I can try, but I was practically chasing Blake around trying to throw money at him while he was just trying to shove me away.”

I eye him. “I’m sensing a theme of people not wanting you around much.”

“Yeah?” he says mildly. “I thought I was the coveted man-whore, master playboy of Heart’s Edge, women trailing helplessly in my wake like the pied piper of pussy. Which one is it?”

I snort—but I’m trying not to grin, my mouth twitching.

“Both. They chase you, then they find out what a prick you are and shove you away. Though you’ve already dropped them by then, I reckon, so you don’t have to care, right?”

Something odd flickers across his face.

His smile fades, and there’s just…something like regret?

Whatever it is, it darkens those eyes to brass.

“Fair guess” he says a little too easily. “Can’t say I haven’t earned every bit of my reputation..”

I frown, folding my arms on the bar and leaning on them.

“Why are you like that, though? I mean, what happened?” I ask. “Did some pretty girl break your heart way back when or something? That kind of old story?”

He’s silent, his gaze drifting away from me, skimming over the bottles lined up behind the bar. He’s got this distant look that says he’s somewhere else, seeing places I probably can’t even imagine.

“Not way back when,” he finally whispers. “Thing is, once you break a wild stallion, he’s busted for good. You can set him free, but he’ll never quite go back to being wild again.”

I shouldn’t be feeling for him.

For that odd melancholy roughness in his voice.