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Briggs looks down at the table, but I catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Lacey’s smile thins. “Cute.”
“I try.”
She stares at me for another second, then turns and walks away, hips doing entirely too much.
I take a sip of my drink.
It’s good.
Damn it.
Tripp leans closer. “A horse?”
“She started it.”
“She did,” Clint says, settling beside me.
Briggs’ eyes stay on the room. “Don’t pick fights with buckle bunnies.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Buckle bunnies?”
Tripp gestures vaguely toward the bar. “Women who like rodeo boys.”
I look between the three of them. “So, groupies in cowboy boots?”
Clint huffs. “Pretty much.”
“Good to know.”
I take another drink, letting the liquor sit on my tongue while I watch the dance floor. Couples move in loose circles, boots sliding, hands on waists and shoulders. Some are actually dancing. Some are just using music as an excuse to touch each other in public.
Lacey comes back over by Tripp again, ten minutes later.
Another woman slides up beside Clint at the bar when he goes for a second round. Even from here, I catch his coffee and vanilla scent, and something about seeing someone else leaning into it makes heat crawl up my neck. He says something to her, but she doesn’t back off, instead, her hand brushes his forearm.
My skin feels too warm all of a sudden, the edge of something restless settling low in my stomach.
Briggs’ gaze drops to my drink, then back to my face. “You murdering that straw for a reason?”
I pull it from my mouth. “It looked at me wrong.”
“Mm.”
“That sounded judgmental.”
“It was.”
I glare at him, but it doesn’t stick because the second drink is already warm in my stomach. Not enough to make me stupid, just enough to make me less interested in pretending.
A cowboy stops beside the table. He’s good-looking in the obvious way. Tall, hat tipped low, smile practiced. His gaze lands on me. “You dancing tonight?” he asks.
I blink up at him. “Me?”
His smile widens. “Don’t much care to ask one of these assholes to dance.”
The table goes quiet.
