She leans in too, elbows on the bar and head tilted my way. “You usually need help? Seems like you’ve got your pick of women to take home tonight.”
That was most definitely an insult, the slight crinkle in her pixie nose clearly showing her distaste as she looks past me. I can imagine what she sees. Bar bunnies, mostly local girls, who see me as some sort of mythical unicorn-level creature, a dirt-roughened cowboy who sings about love and forever. The truth? I’ve seen love and I know it’s real, but I’ve never been in love myself. I figure I’ll know it when I feel it, though.
“Not my style. I’m a pickier sort, and right now, I need all the help Richard can give me because I think I’m in real danger of striking out.” My eyes tick down to her pink lips, which tilt up ever so slightly, letting me know I’m not that close to the danger line.
“What’s your type?” she says, barely louder than a whisper so that the conversation is just between us. “Maybe I can help you out too.”
I scan her slowly. “A blonde with glasses, a nose I want to rub with mine, lips I want to taste, sweet smiles she hands out to everyone she sees, she heavy pours Jack Daniels for me, a new to town city girl I’d love to show around so she can take pictures of anything her heart desires.” Tension builds in the inches between us with my every word.
I’m coming on hard, and I know it. I pray it’s not too much because this is me holding tight restraint over every caveman urge I have, gentling them for her as best I can.
She ducks her chin for a second before lifting it again. Completely unaffected by my charm, she asks, “Does that usually work?”
She doesn’t believe me, thinks I’m feeding her bullshit like some bar schmuck looking for a hookup. The worst part is that I’m telling the God’s honest truth.
“Not a line. Mean every word.” I move my hand to my chest, feeling the racing thump against my palm. “Cross my heart.”
She nods. “Uh-huh.” But she looks a little less sure that I’m being slick.
Olivia reappears at the end of the bar. “You have no idea how much I hate to interrupt this, but three margaritas or table two is gonna riot.”
The moment pops like a bubble and Willow stands upright. “Oh, sorry. I’ve got them.” She moves down to the other end of the bar, and I feel the loss of her, though she’s only a few feet away, her eyes focused on the mixers in front of her.
“Not used to seeing you like this,” Olivia says, a question laced in the comment.
“Okay.” Words aren’t my strong suit unless I’m singing them, and those take me weeks, or sometimes even months, to get just right.
“Take it slow and don’t hurt her. She’s got something going on, something she’s not sharing.” Olivia follows my eyes down the bar, looking at Willow and seeming more like a big sister than the barely-adult she appears to be.
“What makes you say that?”
Olivia looks at me like I’m stupider than the goat on our farm that keeps getting stuck in the fence when she tries to escape.
“A girl doesn’t up and leave her life for no good reason. So be easy with her. She’s not them.” She looks pointedly at table two, the margarita girls who are dressed up in miniskirts, fancy boots with fringe, and plunging necklines.
“That’s why I’m sitting here and not there.”
Olivia backhands my shoulder, pleased. “Good answer, Bobby.”
Willow reappears, setting down three margaritas for Olivia, but before I can say a word, she’s off again. Back to ignoring me and doing her work.
I get it, she’s busy. And I can wait. I’ve got nowhere better to be than right where she is, gleaning every tidbit of intel I can about this woman who has captured my attention more than anyone else ever has. And she’s barely said a word to me. There’s just something about her that is drawing me in.
Magical threads pull me into you, and I swirl into your orbit, lost to anyone but you.
Chapter 4
Willow
His eyes, dark as night and heavy with intention, follow me. I can feel them, the heat singeing me as I work.
A couple of women have approached Bobby while he’s sitting at my bar, but both walked away after a few minutes of ignored conversation. My insides buzz a little because not only did he not talk to the women, he didn’t even look at them. Oh, no, those eyes stayed locked on me the whole time.
At first, I’d discreetly checked to make sure I hadn’t had a nip slip or raccoon eyes, something that would explain the stare treatment, but the thumbs-up Olivia shot me told me loud and clear that Bobby’s attention wasn’t to gawk at the outsider. But rather that he’s interested . . . in me.