Page 61 of High Water

“I don’t know if I can handle all that.” Marlowe looks worried.

“Sure you can.” Dakota grabs a bottle from under the bar and pours a quick shot of tequila. “Steel your nerves. Try new things. That’s what you said your plan for this year was.” Marlowe’s on the receiving end of another pointed look, this one from Dakota.

“Okay. Okay.” Marlowe flashes a look around and then grabs the shot. Throwing it back.

“Can we get a round of those?” Hazel asks.

“Coming right up.” Dakota grins. She sets to work making the shots and whispers something to Mr. Cherry Popping Bartender. He nods and then disappears, returning a few minutes later with a friend who’s every bit as hot as he is. They’re both younger than Dakota, and a newfound awareness of my age pricks at the back of my neck.

“Are we sure I should be the test market for this?” I ask Dakota, my eyes darting to either side of her at the bartenders.

“What do you mean?” She gives me a face full of honest confusion.

“Aren’t I a little old?” I grimace.

I didn’t think of myself as old. At least not before now. I was one of the youngest tenure-track professors in my department in Boston, and Fallon kept me feeling young with her music and friends in my car. We always got her the latest fashion and kept up with trends to make sure her Christmas gifts were as good as the rest of the kids in her bougie school. As did the number of times I spent in the seats of a college hockey arena to support Ethan and his team. But now, in the faded neon light, faced with a set of what I can only assume are maybe, maybe on the high side of my guesstimate, twenty-five-year-old abs glistening in front of me, I’m not sure I’m as young as I think I am.

“I’ve been with women leagues older than you and younger women not nearly as hot as you are, darlin’. I’m not worried if you aren’t,” he answers me before Dakota can, adjusting his cowboy hat with a smirk as he checks me out.

“See?” Dakota grins. “Besides, they both work at Madam’s. Anything I do here is tame in comparison.”

“Madam’s?” I ask, desperate for context with a name like that.

“Duke’s daughters. They own it.” Dakota offers me a clue and searches to see if I can put it together. I know who Duke is. One of the last of his kind, and a friend of my father’s. He put on a hell of a rodeo back in his day, if my father’s stories were to be believed.

“I know who Duke is, but I don’t know him well, or his daughters.”

“Oh, you need to see Madam’s in person. Have Charlotte take you up there. She has a membership.”

“Doesn’t Charlotte live in Cincinnati?” I puzzle at the idea of her having a membership to a place in Colorado when she lives so far away. Although Hudson and Grant did have her flying all over.

“She does. It’s that good. Right, boys?” Dakota asks as she slides shots and ingredients in front of each man. I glance over at Marlowe, and she looks as skeptical as I feel. I’m not sure what we got ourselves into. But that seems to be the theme of my life.

“Hell yes,” the two guys answer Dakota in unison.

“They’re just down here on loan for a few weeks. Training some of my staff.”

“So if you acquire a taste for it, you know where to come find me.” Mr. Cherry Popper smirks at me.

“Watch yourself. She’s about to be a taken woman,” Dakota jokingly warns him.

“In that case, we’ll have to make the most of tonight.” He flirts with me shamelessly. “Unless your future husband likes to watch?”

“I think I see why Madam’s is so successful.” I laugh and then watch as the other guy climbs up onto the bar in front of Marlowe and sheds his shirt.

“Sit,” Dakota instructs both of us.

“Her first. I need to prepare myself.” I nudge Marlowe’s shoulder, and she flashes me a look of worry before her eyes are snatched back to the glimmering, muscled chest in front of her.

I see her cheeks heat as the guy spreads his legs to either side of her and cants his hips back as he scoots into place. He leans back, reaching for a napkin from behind the bar, dousing it with some well tequila, and swipes it over his chest. A liberal shake of a cowboy-boot-shaped saltshaker follows, and he holds out the shot of tequila Dakota already poured for Marlowe.

“You want the shot off the slopes or out of the shot glass?” He points to his abs.

“Uh. The glass.” Marlowe’s cheeks are bright pink, and her eyes dart up and down like she doesn’t know where to put them.

“All right. Lick the snow.” He points to the salt. “Shoot the shot. And then bite the lime.” He slips a lime, rind-side first, into his mouth and holds it between his teeth for her.

“Oh my god! Dakota. I am gonna kill you.” Marlowe closes her eyes but leans forward, timidly licking salt off the man’s chest before she throws back the shot. She stares at the lime, slowly leaning forward and tentatively bracing her hand on his thigh as she reaches up for it before his fingers slip into her hair and tilt her head back gently to deliver the lime to her lips. She takes it from him, brows knitted together, and the flush of color races down her neck.