To a lot of folks, tonight might seem weird. A bachelorette party that’s combined with the bachelor party? I mean, where’s the fun in that? No strippers, no craziness, and nobody gets to suck on a dick-shaped lollipop or drink creamy Jell-O shots that are slightly salty from a waitress’s belly button.
But with all the insanity that’s going to come over the next few days with the rehearsal dinner and wedding, tonight’s party is about the most normal, Avery-like thing I can imagine. Still, it’s not perfect.
“Did he have to bring his brother?” I grumble as I park my car in front of Puss N Boots. “I mean, really?”
“He is the best man,” Avery points out, then grins.
“Ugh, don’t remind me,” I groan, looking across the parking lot as a big black truck pulls up. “You ready?”
“Duh,” Avery says, getting out and beelining for Winston, who is basically running toward her. They meet in the middle, and he wraps his arms around her waist, spinning her in a joyful circle. They act like they haven’t seen each other in months, not hours.
Sickening. And sweet as hell.
Another car pulls up and I see that Rachel’s joined us as well, completing tonight’s party attendance. I get out and cross over to the assembled group, feeling a little bit of something I won’t give a name to when Wyatt immediately ignores Rachel’s already pretty blatant looks to give me a once-over.
“Miss Hazel,” he says with all that country charm that I know works . . . but can’t be real.
“Wyatt,” I reply evenly, promising myself that I’m not going to be rattled by him.
Wren seems to notice my voice, though, and lifts an eyebrow, like she hears something I don’t mean to say. “So how about we see what’s going on inside?” she offers, grinning. “I want to see my brother get his ego checked, and I think Hazel’s the woman to do it.”
“Can we have some fun first?” Winston asks hopefully, and Wren laughs. “Come on, let’s have fun.”
The bar’s lively but not too busy, probably because of the sign that Aunt Etta posted on the door: WEDDING PARTY TONIGHT—THEY COME FIRST, YOU COME SECOND. IF THAT’S A PROBLEM, GO FUCK YOURSELF SOMEWHERE ELSE!
I grin, thinking that even Etta’s notices have semi-intended, slightly sexual overtones. I’m guessing it turned a few folks away at the door, but Charlene looks happy about it as she gives us a wave. “Hey, Etta! Kin’s here!” she hollers.
I’m a little nervous, to be honest, as Aunt Etta comes out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a bar towel. There’s no telling what’s about to come out of her mouth. “Well, y’all are right on time,” she says, giving us all polite smiles. “Shame Hazel can’t manage that for her shifts.” Etta cuts her eyes my way with the dig, and I stick my tongue out at her, both of us aware that I get here early, stay late, and cover shifts often. “Now, Avery, you and Hazel know the rules, but I’m gonna say ’em anyway so there’s no confusion. Have fun tonight, but keep things on this side of the crazy line. You wanna act up some, I gotcha. But don’t make me tell you twice to keep to the orderly side of disorderly. Got it?”
“We’re clear, Miss Etta,” Avery says, and Etta gives me a meaningful look. She knows that everyone’s all good intentions and manners now, but I’m the one who’s going to need to step in if necessary so she doesn’t have to. For once, I’m the good cop, and she’s the bad one.
I’m cool with that.
I hold my breath when she looks Wyatt’s way, afraid she’s going to throw him out or give him shit on my behalf. Wyatt looks back at her boldly, but I’m glad when he decides not to get into a stare off, ultimately giving her a polite, deferential nod and offering his hand. “Nice to finally meet you, Etta. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Aunt Etta ignores the hand but gives him a returning nod. “Yeah, I was home with my horse the other night when you came in, but I heard all about it. It’s too bad I missed you.”
She sounds vaguely threatening, like if she’d been here, she would’ve run him over with her truck. Truth is . . . maybe she would have. Wyatt doesn’t miss a thing, but instead of reacting, he gives her a soft look. “How’s your horse now? Better, I hope?”
Don’t know how he knows it, but Nala is one of Etta’s few weak points, and I swear she softens the tiniest bit at the question about her baby.
“She’s fine now, all better,” Etta assures him. “Just needed some babying.”
“Don’t we all?” I ask, grateful at the positive turn in conversation.
At least I am until Etta adds, “Which means I can focus on y’all tonight.”
She glances around the group, but puts V’d fingers to her eyes and then turns them around toward Wyatt before giving me an eyebrow lift of warning. Without another word, she goes back behind the bar like nothing happened.
“I think that’s our cue to find a table and relax?” Winston says, and after a moment of deciding, we find ourselves at one of Puss’s bigger tables. Charlene brings over a pitcher of margaritas to start things off.
“This one’s on Tay Tay,” she says with a wink to me. “He knows you like it salty.”
“Thanks, but I think I like things a little sweet,” Rachel purrs, winking at Wyatt.
Unexpectedly, I feel a bit of cattiness inside.
Wait . . . what? No, no chance in hell. Can’t be.
Charlene begins pouring glasses of margarita, but Wyatt holds up a hand. “Charlene, I’m the DD. Would you mind getting me something virgin?”
Wren leans forward. “Me too, actually.” When Charlene looks at her in surprise, Wren explains, “I don’t drink much.” She glances at Winston, and something passes between them that I don’t understand.
“Virgin?” Charlene repeats to Wyatt, ignoring Wren’s odd statement. “I bet you’ve had a few of those in your day. Poor things never quite know what they’re doing. You won’t have to worry about that with me later tonight. I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“The only thing I’m doing tonight is making sure my brother gets to the altar in one piece so Avery can tear him up afterward,” Wyatt deadpans, and his humor is so out of left field and unexpected that everyone stops, gawking at him for a moment before we all explode in laughter.
“Hooo boy, I like the way you think!” Charlene says, grinning as she fans herself with her order pad. “Don’t worry, honey-baby. I’ll get something for you and Birdie in just a moment.”
Charlene leaves, while Wren stews. “Birdie? You told her about calling me that?”
“Of course not, but it’s kinda obvious, you know? Could be worse,” Winston says. “I spent months being called nothing but ‘ya bastard.’ I knew Charlene accepted me when I actually got called by my name.”
“I’ll take the hit for that one,” I volunteer to Winston, who raises an eyebrow. “Well, she was going to call you ‘motherfucker,’ but I told her to be more imaginative.”
Winston lifts his glass my way, letting me know there are no hard feelings.
Charlene drops off a couple of drinks for Wyatt and Wren, and Wyatt climbs to his feet. “A toast,” he says, his voice rising above the muted din of the room. Almost everyone quiets, but Wyatt ignores the rest of the room to look at his brother and Avery. “To Winston and Avery. I’ll save the real emotional stuff, and the blackmail material, for the reception. For now”—he pauses dramatically—“may every day see you grow in love, in happiness, and in closeness. To the newlyweds to be.”
“I’ll drink to that!” Winston says, and we all lift a glass to the happy couple.
We relax, talking and getting to know each other better.
Well, Rachel’s definitely taking the opportunity to get to know Wyatt better. “So, Wyatt, now that Avery’s got Winston, what sort of woman revs the engine in your Ford?” She giggles like that’s cute and funny.
“Well, I’m kind of particular,” Wyatt says, leaning back in his chair.
I take a sip of my margarita and glance over to the pool tables, definitely not hoping that Wyatt gives me a peek into those pants of his.
I mean, brain.
I mean, I don’t care in the slightest.
“Oh really?” Rachel asks, batting her eyes. “Particular how? Like brains and beauty? Because I qualify for that.” Her smile says she’s teasing, but her eyes are completely serious. She looks at Avery, hoping for an assist. “Isn’t that right, Avery?”
Gotta give the girl credit. She’s definitely got brains and beauty, but she forgot one more thing she’s got in spades . . . balls. She’s flirting hard.
“Definitely,” Avery says, cutting her eyes to me, “but I’m lucky like that. All my friends are amazing. You, Hazel . . .”
“Don’t forget me,” Charlene jokes as she brings over another pitcher of margaritas and hears the end of Avery’s sidestep, “because right here’s the best of the best of the best . . . with honors.”
“And what honors are those, Charlene?” Wren asks wryly, getting Charlene back for the nickname. “And are they available online?”
Char laughs. “You’ve got no idea to the tricks and skills I’ve got, little Birdie.”
“I’m sure,” Rachel says, laughing along as she tries to rejoin the conversation and gain Wyatt’s attention.
I’ve been watching the women volley back and forth, but risk a glance at Wyatt, only to find him already looking at me. I roll my eyes and sit back, enjoying my drink and trying to stay as removed from this as possible because I’m not in this battle for Wyatt’s attention.
Because the truth is . . . nearly every woman in Puss N Boots, except for Avery and Wren, wants him. And the harder truth is, I’m included. But I’m smart enough to hide it and not throw myself at him.
Nothing but trouble messing with a Ford.
“You know, Hazel, you’ve been pretty quiet,” Wyatt says at one point, raising his glass of what looks like ginger ale toward me. “Don’t tell me you don’t have anything to add to the conversation?”
I lick my lips, tasting the sour lime and alcohol there, and enjoy the way Wyatt’s eyes zero in on the movement. “I have plenty to say, but Avery made me promise to play nice tonight.”
“You know how to behave?” Winston asks me disbelievingly.
“There’s a time to behave,” Wyatt tells his brother before zeroing back in on me, “and a time to misbehave.”
“What do you mean by that?” I ask, and Wyatt raises an eyebrow. “Oh, me jumping on Roddy’s back? That was nothing.”
“I bet Roddy would beg to differ,” Wyatt argues. “In fact, I bet once sober, he was kicking himself for not enjoying the moment more fully.”
“Enjoying me attacking him?” I ask, confused.
Wyatt’s eyes brighten, and I realize I’ve stepped directly into a trap. I’m usually better than this, used to all sorts of setups for cheesy come-ons from customers. But that’s not what Wyatt offers . . .
“Attacking him? With your knees locked around his waist, your chest pressed to him, and your breath on his neck while you screamed?”
He makes my banshee-yelling piggyback ride on Roddy’s back sound like something completely different.
It’s like that for hours. On and off, he and I spar verbally. Sometimes he’s tossing me some pretty blatant comments, other times he’s almost subtle with his come-ons. Meanwhile, I’ve found that trying to irritate Wyatt Ford is fun. He doesn’t show it easily; in fact, the best way I can tell that I’ve gotten one in on him is when he literally doesn’t change his reaction one bit from my last comment. That straight face, hiding his emotions, is more revealing than any of the flirty smiles, deep laughs, or long looks.
But with each round of stories or comments or jokes, I find myself more and more distracted. He’s not perfect, like some movie producer’s wet dream of a hero. No, he’s too cocky, too zero fucks given, for that. But that means the good things I see are all the more real. Like his affection for his brother and sister. Whatever there is between them, and I think those three have more layers than an onion going on there, he’s got a big heart for them both.
“Are we going to see this pool face-off?” Rachel asks eventually. “Because I’m ready to see you play with your balls, Wyatt!”
“I’m going to need therapy for that one,” Wren says, wincing.
I look over at Wyatt, and the sudden image of him bent over the table, his tight bubble butt filling out his jeans, his big biceps stretching the sleeves of his shirt as he strokes his cue has me dry mouthed, and I have to swallow the rest of the margarita in my glass. “Yeah . . . let’s do this.”
“Let’s not,” Wyatt says, and I gape at him in surprise.
“You’re chickening out on me?” I ask, and Wyatt shakes his head. “Sounds like it to me. Bawk! Bawk! Bawk!” My impression sounds a bit like Lester mimicking a chicken, but it gets the point across.
“When we play, Hazel, we’re going to do it when we’re on equal level,” Wyatt says. “You’re getting tipsy. I won’t take advantage.”
“I could beat you falling down drunk!” I protest, and Wyatt laughs.
Getting up, he comes over to my seat, one hand on the back and one on the table to whisper in my ear, “When we play again, I want you sober so that you know without a doubt that I’m the one man good enough to handle you.” I look up at him, searching his face for the lie, but he smiles easily. “Or maybe I need a little liquid courage before I try again.”
It’s sexy, so sexy I can feel a sudden flash of heat between my thighs. Confidence, praise, and some self-deprecating humor all in two sentences? It’s a headier mix than the drinks that are not making me tipsy in the slightest.
“If you want to play, Rachel, go ahead and grab a table. I’m sure Wren will play. I think I’ll get some mushy love songs playing on that jukebox over there. Set the mood for this party.” Wyatt saunters off, going over to the big Seeburg that Etta bought almost at the same time she opened Puss N Boots.
Rachel and Wren look at each other, shrugging and not making a move to claim a table.
“I think I’ll make sure he isn’t loading up a bunch of Carly Rae Jepsen or something,” I mumble, getting up to follow Wyatt, my eyes locked on his broad back and tight buns as he looks at the selections on the digital screen.
He doesn’t look my way when I walk up beside him, as though he knew I’d follow. That irks me. I’m not one of these lovesick, or horny, women he can lead around like a puppy on a leash.
“I’m surprised,” he says as he pushes a button and the screen changes. “I thought you’d have an old-school box here, not digital.”
I ignore his comment and lean in. “You’re wasting your time.”
“Hmmm?” he asks, dropping a quarter in and punching in a code. A few seconds later, Pink’s “Raise Your Glass” starts playing, and Wyatt moves on.
I try again. “You’re flirting with the wrong bridesmaid, Wyatt. That one over there is an easy bet,” I tell him, pointing over at Rachel. “I’m not going to play with your balls anytime soon, but you could probably have her in a bathroom stall with a crook of your finger. No shame in that,” I clarify. “Rachel’s a sweetheart, and a bathroom romp with a hot stranger would be one of those naughty stories she looks back on fondly for the rest of her life.”
Wyatt chuckles and cuts his eyes to me, smirking. With him leaned over the jukebox, he knows it’s just him and me here, and there’s nobody’s feelings to protect other than our own. “Maybe I don’t want easy,” he says. “Maybe easy is boring, even if it is a quickie in a bar bathroom with a hot stranger.” He pauses, looking me up and down. “Maybe I want something more than that.”
I blink, surprised.
So quiet I almost miss it, he says, “Or maybe I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here.” Before I can question that, he punches in another code on the jukebox, then another. “Okay,” he says, stepping back. “So in about ten minutes, you can blame ‘I Want It That Way’ on Winston.”
“You’re kidding . . . That’s on the jukebox?” I ask, and he nods. “Fuck.”
We go back to the table, and true to his word, the Backstreet Boys’ song does play. To my surprise, Winston cheers, singing along as he serenades Avery, who laughs along with him. I get the feeling this isn’t the first time they’ve done this together, and I smile at the mental image of them singing and dancing around together at home to old boy band songs.
By the chorus, Wyatt joins in, the two brothers harmonizing at various points, and I’m half expecting them to break out into a choreographed dance routine. As the bar realizes what’s happening, they start singing backup for Winston, and it becomes an entire concert with Winston and Avery as the center stage stars.
But Wyatt’s eyes aren’t on Avery, or Rachel, or Charlene. And they’re definitely not on his brother, who’s kneeling and holding Avery’s hand now. Wyatt’s eyes stay on me as he sings, and heat fills my chest. I find myself fighting the urge to meet his eyes, and I know I’m probably blushing, even if I should be weirded out that Wyatt Ford’s singing an old love song to me while staring at me like a creeper.
But it’s powerful, knowing I’m the sole focus of his attention. It’s like I’m driving him crazy, and I decide to lean into it, giving him a wink and playing with the straw on my drink. It’s subtle, but he seems to respond to that more than having it thrown in his face. Or he just responds to me . . . regardless of what I’m offering.
I decide to test that.
While I’m figuring out my next move, the Backstreet Boys song ends and Wren runs to the jukebox, shouting, “Our turn!”
The next song starts, and I catch Wren’s suggestion that we do a performance in answer to the one Winston and Wyatt, and most of the bar, just gave.
Game. On.
I know how to work my assets—I’m a waitress, after all—so I run with Wren’s idea.
“On the bar!” I call, and Charlene and Aunt Etta both give me raised eyebrows, but when a soon-to-be bride wants to dance for her man to “Side To Side,” there really isn’t anyplace better than on top of the bar, or on top of the table.
Since we can’t fit more than one person on the table, the bar’s the place to do it. Wren pulls Avery up, and I join them a moment later, dancing along with the other two. Rachel defers, shaking her head when Avery waves her up, but Charlene joins in to the hoots and hollers of the entire bar.
But even as the four of us do some halfway decent hip shaking and even a coordinated booty drop that leaves quite a few tongues wagging when we bring it up slow, I’m not dancing for the crowd.
I’m teasing one person, and one person only. So when I look over my shoulder, it’s Wyatt’s eyes I look into first, letting the heat there inspire my next few moves, before I intentionally look over to some other random dude and flash him a wink.
This is the sexiest I’ve felt in a very, very long time. And that it’s because of a Ford is an extra naughty thrill.
Afterward, Aunt Etta slows down the pace at which the pitchers flow to our table, which is probably a good thing. Even as I slow down, I feel a bit tipsy, and I’m glad for the cool night air when we all leave.
Somehow Wren manages to volunteer herself as the driver for Rachel, Winston, and Avery. “I’ll drop Rachel off at the hotel, and then take Winston and Avery to Avery’s house. I’m good to drive home after that.”
Wren lifts questioning brows at Wyatt, waiting to see if he’ll say anything to change those plans. I keep my mouth shut, knowing she’s leaving the two of us here alone together, but not sure how I feel about that yet.
Wyatt says nothing, and a moment later, Wren’s herding her passengers away.
Almost afraid of myself, or maybe what could happen, I turn without a word and start walking toward my car. Wyatt follows, catching up quickly. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“Walking you to your car,” he says, his voice a deep rumble in the quiet night. “You shouldn’t be driving.”
“I’m fine.”
I am not fine. Not to drive and not to be alone with him.
“I wouldn’t play you in pool. You think I’m going to let you drive? No,” Wyatt says in a no-nonsense tone. “Not a chance, Hazel.”
No one talks to me this way, least of all guys. They’re usually begging for scraps of my attention. But not Wyatt. No, he demands it, but gives it back just as powerfully. The fire inside me roars, liking his confidence, even enjoying his bossiness, and the ache in my body for more than flirting grows uncomfortable.
“Fine.”
We reach my car and he leans in. For a panicked moment, I think he’s going for a surprise kiss.
Nuts him in the knee! I mean, knee him in the nuts!
My automatic response screams across my brain, but I refrain this time. I don’t want to imagine his balls all swollen and purple later. That’s a definite mood killer, and I’m going to have to take care of this fire inside me.
Dammit. I meant to make him hot and bothered, and ended up doing it to myself too.
But instead of the kiss that I’ve decided to allow, he gently plucks my keys from my hand, and steps back, pressing the unlock button on the fob before holding out a hand. I blink stupidly, then realize he’s walking me around to the passenger side. Tipsy me is a sucker for gentlemanly manners.
With my filters down, I tell him, “You’re nice sometimes.”
He doesn’t gloat, thankfully, but I think he chuckles under his breath. He covers it with a cough, so I’m not 100 percent sure—more like 97.3 percent.
“Where to?” he asks as we walk around the back of the car, his voice gentle. “I don’t know where you live.” Ugh. I’m letting him put me in the shotgun seat of my own car.
“Not going home,” I answer unexpectedly. Not sure where that came from because I was totally thinking about going home and using the muscle-blaster setting on my showerhead to blast my clit. Hard and fast, it’d get me off like a rocket, and probably knock me out for the rest of the night.
“Okay,” Wyatt says agreeably. “Where to, then?”
I turn to lean against the passenger door. “Mom’s bakery.”
Wyatt gives me a very suspicious look. “Where?”
“The Bakery Box,” I explain, being very careful to enunciate each word. “I work there, helping out as much as I can, and she’s extra busy this week with the wedding prep.”
“You want to bake? Now?”
“No, I want to clean,” I retort sarcastically. “Of course I want to bake. It’s a bakery. That’s what you do there. Or are you too good to get your hands dirty?”
“I clean my workshop every day,” Wyatt scoffs. “But you work for Etta and your mom? At the same time?”
“Yep,” I reply with pride. “It’s a family affair. Twenty-four seven, three hundred and sixty-five. It’s what we do.”
Wyatt shivers. “That sounds awful.”
Maybe that’s true for his own family. I think it speaks volumes about the Fords, and gives me a bit more insight into why Wyatt left town. Maybe I can find out why? “Depends on the family.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” he says almost wistfully. Suddenly, he gives me a smile. “Think you could use some help?”
“At the bakery?” I ask incredulously. “I was joking about your hands, Wyatt.”
“I know. And why not?” Wyatt offers. “I promise, despite me being a Ford, I do know how to scrub a pot or use a mop. I can help.”
“Do you bake?” I ask, and he winces.
“Noooo,” he says hesitantly, “but I can follow orders.”
I snort. “Yeah . . . I’m sure that’s not true in the slightest.”
Wyatt shrugs. “Let’s say I can follow orders when I want to, when they make some sense and are given by someone I want to please.”
I’m pretty sure we’re not talking about cupcakes or mopping floors any longer, but I’m almost eager to find out exactly what we are talking about. “Okay, let’s test that theory.”
