I jerk my gaze up to Creighton’s. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“You gonna ride the bull?”
He smirks. “Are you?”
My own smile grows wide, and for the first time since I met him, I’m not ashamed of the accent I let color my words. “Baby, this ain’t my first rodeo.”
“Good girl. Because this I want to see.”
We sidle up to the bar, and I slip my hat and mittens into my coat pockets as Creighton orders for both of us. I don’t argue, especially because he’s ordered two shots of whiskey. I’m reminded of our first night together at the Rose Club, amazed at how different tonight is despite how little time has passed. It’s crazy how everything can change so quickly.
“Only Prettier” by Miranda Lambert is playing on the bar speakers, and I have to smile. Her start wasn’t all that different from mine, and look where she is now. She’s also unashamedly herself. I could probably learn a thing or two from her.
But then again, she was married to a fellow country singer, like Tana, not a billionaire. This is a whole different situation. I’m trying to straddle two worlds, but at least for tonight, Creighton is making an effort to bring me to a world that isn’t quite so foreign.
He slides one shot glass in front of me and raises his. “To us. We’ve officially outlasted at least one or two celebrity marriages. Britney Spears comes to mind.”
I choke out a laugh before I can offer the toast back to him. “I can’t even believe you know that.”
“I think everyone knows about that.” He continues holding up the shot glass and raises an eyebrow. “It’s bad luck to not reciprocate. Toasts . . . and other things.”
I smile, and it’s genuine. This sense of humor isn’t something I expected. “Well, I don’t think we need any bad luck. So,” I raise my glass, “to us.”
As we clink glasses and toss the liquor back, my eyes burn, and it has nothing to do with the whiskey sliding down my throat. I’m just stunned by the fact that there is an us.
Me and Creighton Karas. My husband.
I squeeze my eyes shut and beat the sneaky tears back before they can completely surface. Then I slap my shot glass down on the wooden bar.
“Let’s do this.” I jerk my head toward the mechanical bull.
A girl is riding it, her fancy black pencil skirt riding up and her suit jacket tossed to the side. Her boobs bounce against her tailored white dress shirt with each swivel and buck of the bull. She only makes it a few seconds before sliding off onto the mats. Apparently someone was ready for the workday to be over.
Now I’m gonna show them how a real country girl does it.
“We taking bets?” I ask Creighton.
“About how long you stay on, or how hard my cock is going to get watching you ride?”
My giggle breaks loose. “I don’t need to take bets on your cock. We’re getting pretty well acquainted, and I have a good feeling that he’s going to like this a whole lot.” I slide off the stool and slip my coat off my shoulders and toss it at him. “Let me show you how a country girl does it.”
Creighton leans down, my coat in one hand, and whispers in my ear, “I know how this country girl does it, and she’s got me hooked.”
His words stun me into silence. It’s the first indication he’s given that he feels something for me beyond the need to possess me like his newest toy. I can’t process this right now, in the middle of a bar, not with Montgomery Gentry and “Hillbilly Shoes” just starting to crank on the speakers. It’s altogether too apt.
Creighton doesn’t really know me. Not all of me. Not the heart and soul of me that I pour into my songs. Not the indescribable high I get when I’m standing onstage. Not the tiny town where I’m the girl who made good, and yet I haven’t been back. Not the important parts of me.
Will he still be hooked then?
I plaster a smile on my face to cover my racing thoughts. “I’ll see you after I’ve made the eight,” I say, and spin on my bootheel to walk toward the man at the edge of the bull pen.
Holly makes the eight, and she looks like a goddess doing it.
I want to tear every man’s eyes away from her, but even I’m too riveted by her smooth, graceful movements to do a damn thing but stare. It’s not lurid like some of the other women who rode the bull before her—chest heaving and making a spectacle. Holly manages to look beautiful and sweet even in this.
When she climbs off and walks over, I’m waiting at the gate. My hand is out, and something surges inside me when she doesn’t hesitate to close her fingers around it. She’s learning to trust me, and that’s not something even I can command. It’s something that has to be offered freely, and she’s starting to.