Cowboy Daddy. Angel Smits
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
HE LOVED HER. He’d always loved her. He couldn’t imagine not loving her. But she wasn’t for him. Leaning back on the bar stool, Lane Beaumont stared into the mirror behind the well-stocked bar. Between the whiskey and vodka bottles, he could see the entirety of the Lucky Chance Bar, all three thousand square feet of wood and country décor. Still, his vision narrowed to her.
Just her.
Amanda Hawkins sat with three of her friends in a booth toward the back. The live music hadn’t started yet, so he caught snatches of their conversation and every once in a while, a snippet of her laughter.
That laughter—sweet and warm—first had hit him way back during that summer between his junior and senior years of high school, the summer she’d spent working at her grandfather’s ranch. Right away, that sweet, husky sound had grabbed him and pulled him to her.
Their eyes met just then in the mirror, and Lane forced himself to be the first to turn away. Going for the casual, “I don’t give a damn” look, he took a deep swallow of his beer. He’d allowed himself only one drink, and this was it, so he intended to make the most of it.
“Hello, Lane.”
Her voice washed over him, and he mentally cursed. He didn’t need the temptation tonight.
“Hey, Mandy.” He didn’t look at her. He didn’t have to. He could see her—every beautiful inch—inside his head, in his memories. And felt her gaze roam over him. “Slumming again?”
“Don’t be a jerk.” She leaned against the bar. “Hey, Sam. Can we get one more round?” She gave the bartender—another member of their old summer crowd—a grin and a wink as she handed him an empty serving tray.
“Must be some celebration,” Lane said before the next swallow. “That’s your third trip up here.”
“You counting my drinks, cowboy?” She glared at Lane, then turned back to Sam and the four glasses of assorted drinks settled on the serving tray. Mandy had worked here one summer a while back—she knew how to carry a tray like a pro.
Mandy curled her long, slender fingers around the edge of the tray, her knuckles flashing white for an instant. Turning to lift it off the bar, she brushed against Lane’s shoulder, sending a shaft of something he refused to identify zinging through him. “Maybe you should ask why we’re here instead.”
Lane knew better than to ask anything that specific of Mandy Hawkins. He’d been down that rabbit hole before, and they didn’t serve tea at that Mad Hatter’s party. He shook his head and she carried the tray back to the table, a sweet little sway in her hips and long chestnut hair. He watched. Every. Single. Step.
“She’s not stupid, Lane,” Sam said as he filled more glasses on the other side of the bar.
“I never said she was.”
Sam’s right eyebrow shot up. “Then why do you ignore everything she throws at you?”
Lane wasn’t going to answer that. Sam needed to keep his nose in his own business, but Lane wouldn’t voice that thought, either. Something about protesting too loudly flitted through his mind. “So, what’s the occasion?”
“Trina’s moving to Chicago. Some new job. Some new guy, too.”
Lane picked Trina out of the group. He’d never liked her. Not when she’d been the head of cheer squad in high school, and even less when she’d dragged Matt Halloran down the aisle the summer after graduation.
Two years later, his friend Matt had found himself working double shifts at some big box store in Dallas in order to make the child support and alimony payments. So Trina could live in LA in the style Matt had never been able to provide.
Why Mandy had ever become friends with her, he had no idea.
Yet another reason to keep his distance.
Yeah, if he kept telling himself that he might start to believe he actually could. Sam walked away shaking his head, and Lane returned his gaze to the mirror.
Mandy looked good tonight. Pretty as always. But there was something off that he couldn’t peg. He frowned. Her smile seemed slightly dimmed. Her eyes—he looked harder—were distant.
Those eyes turned to him, caught him watching her in the mirror. And held. Why was she here?
Lane tilted his glass and finished his beer. He tossed a couple of bills on the bar to pay the tab. Time to go. He had a half dozen other places to hit tonight. Hank hadn’t shown up here, and his phone was oddly silent.
But it was early still. Maybe the old man hadn’t hit that mean drunk stage yet, wherever he was. Lane headed to the door, listening as the band warmed up on the miniscule stage. Some pseudo-country band that thought adding a fiddle and harmonica meant they could call what they played country music.
“Where you headed?” Mandy’s voice found him at the door.
He wasn’t interested in sharing his schedule with her tonight. He took a few more steps, her perfume following him.
“Go back to your friends, Mandy.” He hit the metal crash bar and stepped out into the night. Drizzle fell from the sky, making a mud puddle out of the parking lot. Great. Just great. He didn’t need this. He had too much to do.
He’d just reached his old truck when a soft hand touched his arm. What the—? “Mandy? What are you doing?”
“Something I should have done months ago.”
She must be drunk, he reasoned as she stepped in close. At the thought, his stomach churned. God, no. But when her lips found his, she didn’t taste like alcohol.
She tasted like the spring breeze wafting over the prairie, fresh and sweet. Welcoming. His arms instinctively went around her, holding tight, letting himself go—for just a minute—to the one place in the world he wanted to be. Lord, he’d missed her. Missed this.
His senses quickly returned, and he reluctantly removed her arms from around his neck and stepped away. “You want to explain what the hell this is about? I thought you’d decided we were finished.”
He looked closer. Her eyes glittered with damp. Tears? Mandy Hawkins was the only girl he’d ever known who didn’t know how to cry. “What’s wrong?” Deja vu slithered over him as rain fell in earnest.
“No...nothing.”
“Like hell.” He yanked open the door of his truck and lifted her in. The battered bench seat could take the damp. He climbed in after her. “Explain.” He pinned her with a stare and a stiff arm, keeping her from leaning against him. He couldn’t refuse her more than once a night. He wasn’t that good a man.
“DJ...” She hiccupped.
Her