But I kind of hope she’s right. He’s unmistakably the hottest guy in here, and I’ve found my eyes wandering his way more than once.
As he stands up and hinges forward, leaning on the bar, I can’t help noticing his long legs and tight ass wrapped in dark denim. His worn chambray shirt stretches taut across his broad back and shoulders. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, exposing tan, muscled forearms.
“D’you see that woman over there in the tiara? All I want is to push her up against the side of my truck, take her face in my hands, and give her the best kiss of her life. And that’s only the beginning…”
There I go making shit up again.
I have no idea what they’re saying between the din in the place and the extra noise from a cocktail shaker, but I notice the slight tilt of the bartender’s head in my direction. Ten years of taking depositions has given me a sixth sense about the tiniest bodily shifts. It helps to figure out what a person is hiding and find important nuggets of information for a case.
I wrench my gaze away just before I’m caught staring.
“Probably because I’m sitting here wearing a crown like a dope.” I reach for it, but before I can take it off, Callie’s hand shoots up and anchors it in place.
“Keep it,” she hisses. “It’s cute. How else can we get you to be festive when you refused to dress up for your own birthday dinner?”
“We’re at a rustic little hole-in-the-wall. I didn’t think it called for Chanel.”
She snorts. “Like you own Chanel.” I shrug, and her eyes bulge. “Dude, do you really wear Chanel?”
My sisters don’t know that I’m not even close to making partner at my firm, which means I’m not even close to needing a suit for a court appearance, let alone one made by Chanel.
“I have one suit I save for really important meetings, but I bought it at a vintage place for a steal. Relax.”
Callie grins. “How are you so cool? Someday, I want to be you.”
I push down the guilt over pretending I have important meetings. It’s better that they don’t know the real reason I’ll probably never make partner. I’m not passionate about the work I’m doing, and that makes it hard to reach for a prize I’m not sure I want. Even if it is supposedly the goal.
I put an arm around her shoulder. “I love you, Cal. Please never change.”
“What’s happening over there? Sisterly bonding without us?” Dylan asks, tapping a finger against her empty martini glass and looking up to snag the bartender’s eye. He nods in our direction, and I’m impressed by his command of the room, which is busy for a small town. Then again, it’s the only place within miles that serves steak—we looked.
Everyone has been on birthday behavior. In other words, my sisters are all laughing, getting along, and having fun. No one has mentioned the ranch property again, in favor of birthday toasts and jokes about how I’m sliding into middle age at thirty-five. Hannah is the only one who sits out when the old lady talk happens.
“Sorry,” Hannah whispers to me when Dylan, barely thirty-two, pipes in again and insists that I’m old. “You’ve got plenty of time. Age is just a number, and people do everything later now.”
As though I’m not aware of the ticking clock on my ovaries. I always imagined myself getting married and having kids, but somehow, years slipped by and none of my dating sprees turned into the relationships I dreamed of. Pushing forward on my career goals and dreams seems like a much better use of my energy. The odds of success seem better.
Hannah married her college sweetheart and has an adorable little boy. With her solid career in publishing, she is the poster child for “having it all,” but that’s just how she rolls. She makes a decision, and her life goes according to plan.
“I’m fine with my age,” I say, signaling to the bartender for another lemon drop even though I haven’t finished the first one. The cowboy at the bar lifts his drink in a toast. I offer him a stiff smile and jerk my attention back to my sisters. The last thing I need in my life is a cowboy.
What do I need in my life?
Thirty-five years, and the one certainty is that I need my sisters, and they depend on me to look out for them. But what else do I need?
I sneak another look at the cowboy.
It is my birthday, after all. It wouldn’t be the worst thing to have a white-hot hookup with a guy who looks like dessert on a barstool. He has sexy dark hair, all tousled like he just got off a galloping horse. I’m such a city girl. Tiny Willow Springs seems like the Wild West to me, but he’s probably just a dude who works at a grocery store or someone who paints houses.
Whatever. In my fantasy, he’s a hot cowboy, and he knows what to do with a horse whip.
His forehead bears the faint lines of age. The creases around his deep brown eyes could be from working in the sun or smiling at his sweetie, who’s actually his horse.
This guy is built like a rancher, someone with broad enough shoulders to swing a lasso or take control of a surly bull. He’s wearing boots, after all, but then again, people in LA wear boots to hop in and out of their Mercedes G wagons. This man, though, he looks like the real thing. His thighs, clad in dark jeans, look thick and strong like those of an athlete. He was probably a high school quarterback. He has the build for it. Football player turned rancher, riding horses by day and chopping wood to throw into an old stone hearth by night.
Why not let my imagination write the rest?
Behind his intense gaze lies a dark, sad past, something out of a country song. His wife left him, his job stole his soul, and he’s here drinking away his troubles because life got in the way of his dreams.