Million Dollar Cowboy (Cupid, Texas #5)(26)
Yeah, babe, me too. Me too.
"Oh snapdragons," she muttered, looking as dazed as he felt. "Stay in here until I get settled."
"Gotcha," he said, but she was already gone, leaving him reeling.
Stunned with the full knowledge that whatever was going on between them, he was in it up to his neck.
Chapter 9
It the end, it turned out to be the bachelor party from hell.
At seven that evening, Archer, Ridge, Ranger, Ned, Herb, Armand, Duke and Zeke and Kip loaded up in various vehicles and headed for Chantilly's Bar and Grill.
On the way to the venue, Ridge noticed little had changed. Cupid was a town trapped in time; a small-assed place where they rolled up the carpets as soon as it got dark, no sushi restaurants within three hundred miles, too many freaking eccentric artists running around sketching desertscapes.
One by one, he listed the town's shortcomings. Tried to convince himself that he did not miss it, even when his heart tugged as they passed landmarks and landscapes etched into his memory.
The water tower he and Archer had graffitied. The old Palace Theatre-now closed and boarded up-where he'd lost his virginity at sixteen with a college girl. The Grab N Go where he'd bought his first beer with a fake ID, only to get caught by a deputy who was good friends with Duke.
Nope. Not happening. He wasn't going to be seduced by nostalgia. He was glad he'd left. Happy. Thrilled. Lucky. Best thing that ever happened to him. Especially in the summer, when everything went so bone-dry a man couldn't even work up spit, and going outside without sunscreen put you in imminent danger of skin cancer.
Who could miss that?
As part of his best man duties, Ridge had gotten his secretary, Gilda, to reserve the party room and arrange for food and gag gifts. Archer had said specifically that he did not want strippers and Ridge honored his request.
He'd always thought strippers at bachelor parties were immature anyway. Come to think of it, bachelor parties were juvenile in general, but hey, it was tradition and Archer was getting married. He deserved a proper send-off.
The bar hadn't changed much in the past ten years. Same colorful Christmas lights were still strung from the rafters like a south-of-the-border cantina. Same oversized margarita glasses, same mosaic tile on the floor. There were new tables and chairs and a fresh coat of bright orange paint on the walls, but that was the extent of the facelift.
A perky, ponytailed hostess led them to the back room, and she was openly staring at Ridge.
Did he know her? He hoped not. He'd sown some wild oats in his day. Broken hearts. Not proud of it, but there it was.
It was another downside about returning home. Chickens roosting. History biting a guy in the ass . . .
The room had been decorated in typical trashy bachelor party fare-inflated love dolls, one of the walls set up for bra pong, sexy lingerie clothes-pinned to rope strung from the ceiling.
The dessert spread was equally bawdy. Cookies in the shapes of lush fannies, chocolate-covered frozen bananas on a stick, cupcakes that looked like breasts with nipples. Libations consisted of multicolored Jell-O shots molded in condoms, cans of Coke with mini bottles of Jack Daniel's attached for mixing, and black lager beer representing the death of Archer's freedom.
Party favors included shot glasses engraved with the bride's and groom's initials. Beer koozies emblazoned with BYE-BYE BACHELORHOOD. Emergency hangover kits that included breath mints, Alka-Seltzer, and mini-bar-sized bottles of vodka.
And the games-AstroTurf putting green, a roulette wheel, darts, and a poker table.
His secretary had outdone herself. Gilda deserved a bonus for pulling this off long-distance. If the party wasn't a success, it certainly wasn't her fault. Now it was up to him to make sure everyone had a good time and got home safely. No drinking for him. Besides, the last thing he wanted was to end up the best man with a black eye and a hangover.
At first, the conversation was stiff. Everyone feeling their way into the party. Guys unaccustomed to hanging out with each other stuffed in a small room filled with a sexuality-oriented theme. It took a few minutes, and a few shots of liquor, to get things lubed.
Ridge fed money into the old-fashioned jukebox, and got some tunes playing. Soulful ballads. Country classics. Hank Williams. Johnny Cash. George Jones. Merle Haggard.
With his pocketknife Duke split open the condom mold of a tequila-laced lime Jell-O, sucked it down, and followed that with a shot of red-hot cinnamon schnapps. His father looked fierce in his black Stetson, dinner-plate-sized silver belt buckle and freshly starched, sharply creased blue jeans.