"Definitely Colt," Wren yelled back, sliding a lime wedge toward me. "But not tonight. He promised me he'd behave for your going-away party."
Your going-away party. There it was again. Every time she said it, something twisted tighter in my chest.
The bartender set our shots in front of us. Colt lifted his glass. "To Sienna! For surviving my brother."
I picked up mine. "To surviving."
I tossed it back. The tequila burned all the way down, but it didn’t touch the heavy knot sitting behind my ribs.
I should’ve been happy. I’d finished the job, and the bonus would come through just in time to cover Mara’s tuition. There was nothing holding me in Wyoming anymore. All I had to do was drink the tequila, keep my distance from Brock, and make it to my flight tomorrow.
People were packed shoulder to shoulder, squeezing past each other with drinks in hand. The air smelled like spilled beer, sweat, and cologne. Boots and denim filled the dance floor, bodies moving wherever there was space.
Colt and Wren disappeared into the crowd to join the dancing. I stayed behind.
When I glanced back toward the neon sign, the cowboys were gone. Two women were now talking to Brock. One of them was laughing, her hand resting on his bicep.
My stomach tightened.Watch his left shoulder. He’s bleeding under there.
Brock took a small step back from both and gave a polite nod before turning away. Across the crowded room, his eyes locked onto mine.
I looked away first.
This was his world. These people got to keep him. Tomorrow I’d be back in a high-rise in Chicago, and this would just become a story I told Mara.
I stared down at the scratched-up bar, suddenly feeling completely out of place. A second later, a solid warmth settled at my back.
“You avoiding me, Starlin’?” Brock’s low voice rumbled right behind my shoulder, cutting through the loud music.
I turned around. “You looked busy.”
His blue eyes locked onto mine. “I was. It sucked.”
He reached past me, grabbed an abandoned tequila shot Colt had left on the bar, and threw it down in one smooth motion.
He set the glass down. “You’re overthinking again.”
"I have to." I kept my voice low. “I'm your PR manager. Whatever almost happened in that hotel room… we need to pretend it didn’t.”
He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a rough murmur. "I'm not pretending a damn thing. We didn’t finish what we started.”
My heart stumbled. “Brock, please. My flight’s at four tomorrow.”
“Your contract ends at midnight,” he pointed out.
“Exactly. So tonight we need to stay professional.” I gripped the edge of the bar behind me, leaning back just enough to keep a little space between us. “Because if we don’t, getting on that plane tomorrow is going to be impossible.”
He looked at my mouth, then back up to my eyes. Before I could throw myself at him right there against the bar and ruin my career, a hand grabbed my wrist.
“Alright!” Wren yelled over the noise. “They’re playing a fast one! Come on, Sienna—you’re dancing with me.”
“Wren, wait?—”
It was no use. She grabbed my hand and pulled me straight into the middle of the dance floor. The band was tearing through a fast, fiddle-heavy song, and people were spinning all around us.
“Just step when I step!” she shouted, grabbing both my hands and grinning. “Quick, quick, slow, slow!”
“I’m terrible at this!”