At Whit's End (Wells Ranch, #4)(59)
The craziest part? He’s completely sober. Hasn’t even consumed sugar tonight. Alex would never let loose like this in public, even under the influence of alcohol.
“Hey, Mama,” Colt says between panting breaths, fanning himself with his cowboy hat after stumbling off the dance floor in the dull space between songs. Sweat-damp shirt clung to his abs. My purse hanging against his waist. “Still having fun?”
“Yeah, just needed water.” I hold up my empty glass. “By the way, I’m glad you lost that bet. The mustache looks good on you.”
Laughing, he strokes it. I take that as an invitation to run my fingertips over his upper lip, then across the soft skin of his cheek, before finally trailing down to scrub the harsh stubble lining his jaw.
“Discount Riley Green?” He yells the question into my ear over a sudden bass drop.
“Hotter than Riley Green,” I shout back. “Jonas wouldn’t know a good mustache if it slapped him in the face.”
The smell of him and the slow circling of his fingers on my lower back makes the world hazy. I can’t help but imagine him drawing a similar pattern in a very different place.
With a tug of his shirt, I pull him close enough that my lips brush the shell of his ear. “I’m ready to get out of here.”
“Yeah?” He tucks hair behind my ear. I imagine I look a mess after hours of drinking and dancing in a bar filled with other sweaty, drunk people. Maybe it’s my tipsy brain playing tricks on me, but I swear he still thinks I look pretty somehow.
“I already told Blair we were leaving soon,” I say. “Jackson’s gonna drive them home.”
“Let’s get outta here then.”
Colt
Starting toward the door, she turns to me and says, “I can take my bag back, if you’re tired of looking silly.”
I gasp, clutching the strap. “You think this looks silly? Here I was starting to see the appeal in carrying a purse.”
The first breath of crisp night air fills my lungs, and I smile at the cute, tipsy birthday girl staggering along beside me. My grip on her waist tightens. I snagged her purse after the third round of shooters because I had a feeling it was safer with me than with her. I wasn’t risking a real-life rendition of “Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off.”
After navigating down the sidewalk and across the street, we finally reach my truck. A group of guys in my periphery are staring us down as they take long drags from cigarettes, planting an uneasy feeling in my gut. Keeping one hand on her back, I tug open the passenger door and steal a glance at the men.
Whit’s oblivious—too busy trying to figure out how to climb into my slightly lifted pickup.
“Grab that handle right there and pull yourself up,” I instruct. “I’ve got you.”
She does as she’s told and throws a leg up into the truck. Her dress glides up her thighs, threatening to reveal everything she’s wearing underneath, and I grab the hat from my head without a second thought. Positioned just right, the wide brim of my Stetson covers her ass no problem.
Those boys aren’t getting a free show.
Once she’s situated in the passenger seat, my thumb pushes the manual lock as the door falls shut.
In the thirty seconds it took me to walk around to the driver’s side, Whit’s managed to kick her boots off, and she’s sitting cross-legged in the seat. I can’t help but notice that her socks don’t match—one black, the other gray and covered in yellow lightning bolts.
“Where’s Betty?”
“With my mom. I dropped her off on my way here.”
“Does your mom like being a dog grandma? Or does she want to be a human grandma?”
The truck rumbles to life, and I glance over at her. Is this a question about whether my mom would love Jonas?
“Um…yeah, she loves Betty. But she loves kids, too. Even the kids that aren’t her own. She treats my cousin’s baby like it’s her own grandkid.”
Whit nods slowly. Thoughtfully.
“Thanks for tonight…and for today. I don’t— Nobody does nice things for my birthday like that.”
“You deserve that every single day.”
Her lips form a pencil-thin line. Passing streetlights illuminate the cab in fleeting bursts, like a stop-motion film of Whit glancing in my direction, slowly reaching to unbuckle her seatbelt, and shuffling across the bench seat to be next to me.
“Whit, please put a seatbelt on.”
My hands grip ten and two, and I’m watching the road with the precision of somebody taking their driving test. This would be a horrible time for a raccoon or other small animal to run out onto the street, when I can’t slam on the brakes without injuring Whit.
And yet, she won’t listen.
I refuse to let my eyes stray from the road, even as her fingers walk up my chest. “Can you please put a seatbelt on?”
“I hate that you’re friends with Jonas.”
“Seatbelt,” I plead. “Please, honey. I’d love to talk to you, but I can’t focus when I’m stressing the fuck out about you getting hurt.”
When it’s pretty damn clear she isn’t going to listen, I pull the truck to the side of the highway beyond the Sheridan town limits and flick my hazard lights on. Under the white cast of a full moon, I turn diagonal in my seat and slap my hands down on my thighs.