Page 23 of Keepsakes and Kismet

Romy purses her lips before answering. “I’m afraid to report it was worse. You know what? Maybe everyone will be too drunk to care.”

I make prayer hands and look toward the heavens as I walk toward the door. “We can only hope.”

“Hey—will they have strobe lights there? Are you going to be okay?”

I turn around. “Because of my epilepsy? Nah, I’ll be fine. I’m not photosensitive.”

“Okay. Well, enjoy! I’ll keep an eye out for any tags on social media.”

I tip my cowgirl hat and shrug a fringe jacket over my shoulder. “Now, I reckon that’s a fine idea, partner! Wish me luck. Yippie ki-yay, and all that!”

“It’s too late for luck.” Romy picks up our office phone. “I’ve got a witch on speed dial.”

I laugh and tap my boots together before throwing open the door.

* * *

The loud twang of country music hits my ears as soon as I get out of the car. The song is one I recognize from a western-aesthetic wedding I attended several months back. Something about beers, boots, and brawls. I forget the name, but it’s catchy, and I find myself syncing my pace with the thump of the bass as I walk toward the bar.

The bouncer checks my ID outside, and when I open the door, the strum of guitars and the resonance of fiddles sings through the massive speakers.

“Peyton, there you are! Thanks for coming.” The promoter who hired me opens his arms, and I can tell he’s going in for a hug, so I take off my cowgirl hat and hold it against my chest.

“Howdy, Eric! Thanks for havin’ me in this here fine establishment.” My voice doesn’t carry that well over the loud music, so if he notices anything off about my accent, he doesn’t mention it.

The light from the mirrorball on the ceiling glints off his bald head as he leans closer for more discretion. “Are you all set to ride the big guy over there? We’ve been hyping it up all night, but—just like I thought—no one wants to be the first.”

I track his gaze to the mechanical bull in the center of the bar, which is currently roped off. An attendant sits in front of it, waiting for someone drunk enough to take the leap. Its brown faux cowhide is held down by a thin “saddle” of sorts. A small group is gathered near the rope, shoving their friends and trying to talk each other into riding it.

“I’m a Professional First Everything,” I joke, shrugging off my jacket. “You can count on me, partner.”

He nods. “Awesome. The strategy for tonight hasn’t changed. First, we’ll want you to integrate yourself with the crowd so it looks like a natural decision for you to ride the bull. When you’re chatting with patrons, make sure to mention you’re from Texas, so you’ve been to a lot of different western bars before, but Saloon 313 is the most authentic.”

I scan the walls, with their shiny plastic deer heads and blinking neon “Cheers, y’all” sign. Looks the opposite of authentic to me, but I’m not getting paid for my opinions, so I nod enthusiastically.

“You got yerself a deal, pal,” I say in a (hopefully) flawless southern accent.

He throws me a funny look, but gives me the green light to begin my assignment nonetheless.

I find a group of girls near the bar. Perfect. Much easier for me to strike up a conversation with them than the men.

“Howdy, y’all! Are y’all from around these parts?”

A brunette wearing a shirt with the words “Saddle Up!” across her chest smiles and says, “Yeah, we’re all from the Detroit area. You sound like you’re not, though. Where are you from?”

I preen, blissfully adjusting my hat. Suck it, Romy. My southern accent is great.

“I’m from Texas. I wasn’t sure what to expect up here, but doggone it… this place is even better’an Holler Honkytonk I got back home.” For some reason, my voice lowers along with the accent, giving it a slightly menacing edge. Even to my untrained ears, it’s leaning a tad Russian.

Thankfully, Eric’s voice comes through on the microphone, cutting me off. “The bull is waiting for a rider. Will it be you? Check in with the operator for the experience of a lifetime!”

Of a lifetime seems like overkill, but my eyes spark with fake delight nonetheless.

“Well, butter my biscuit! That there bull sounds right up my lil’ ol’ alley. I’m fixin’ to go check it out. Y’all have fun, now.” I give them a little wave and move deeper into the bar.

“Peyton?”

I flinch. Shit. I know that voice. That slightly-frustrated-yet-determined, oddly attractive voice. When I spin around, I find Callum’s chin dimple at my eye level. Seeing me on three different assignments is going to make this man lose his ever-loving mind.