Good Time Cowboy. Maisey Yates

“Right. I guess we’d better go find a table.”

      “There’s one right next to us,” he said, because the hell if he was going to let her avoid him. The hell if he was going to sit in the same bar as her and let her pretend he wasn’t here. The hell he was going to spend all night trying not to look over at her.

      “Thanks,” Bea said, her tone bright. Dane thanked him too, both of them clearly oblivious to the fact that Lindy wanted to scream.

      Wyatt led the way back over to his table, and he ignored Grant’s assessing gaze. It didn’t escape Wyatt’s notice that Lindy took the seat at the table that put her farthest away from him.

      A moment later Jamie reappeared, smiling broadly when she saw the new additions. “Bea,” she said, sliding her chair over slightly and putting herself next to her. “Good to see you.”

      It surprised Wyatt that Bea and Jamie were friends. Though, they were the same age. Just about. But still, Bea was softer, fine-boned and possessing the femininity of a vaguely feral fairy. Jamie was tall, no-nonsense and, as far as Wyatt knew, resolutely allergic to dresses.

      Bea started talking with broad hand gestures about some of the animals she had cared for at the clinic today, and suddenly Wyatt understood the connection. Animals. Jamie had practically been born in the saddle. Horses were her passion. And Bea seemed to like anything with four legs.

      “I’m going to get a drink,” Lindy said.

      “I’ll go with you,” he said.

      He ignored the look earned from Grant as he and Lindy walked toward the bar.

      “Let me ask you a question,” Lindy said. “Do you try to get on my nerves?”

      “To be perfectly honest with you, angel, I don’t have to try. You make it too easy.”

      “So you were that boy.”

      “What boy?” he asked, as the two of them sidled up to the bar. Lindy pressed her delicate hands down on that scarred wooden countertop, and he pressed his down alongside hers.

      For a moment, all he could do was stare at the contrast the two of them made. Her smooth hands, with long, fine-boned fingers, not a single scar to be seen. His own, weathered, with more than a few chunks taken from them.

      If he were to take hold of her, his hand would cover hers entirely.

      If he were to pull her up against his body, the contrast would be much the same. Soft. Hard. Smooth. Weathered.

      “The one that pulled pigtails,” she said, not looking at him when she spoke.

      Something stirred inside of him, and he just couldn’t stop himself from saying what he said next. “I still pull pigtails,” he said. “If the lady asks me nicely.”

      She looked at him, a cautious expression in her blue eyes. Like she was about to give the answer to a math problem she’d done in her head, and wasn’t entirely certain of. “I doubt that’s ever happened.”

      “Sure it has.” He grinned and waited. For her to get mad. For her to blush. Something.

      Except, now he was going to end up thinking about that for far too long. Usually, she met him barb for barb. But this particular innuendo didn’t seem to resonate. Maybe that was because she wasn’t standing there mired in sexual tension. Maybe it was because she didn’t think of him that way.

      But it might just speak to other things. Inexperience he wouldn’t have thought a woman who’d been married for a decade could possibly have.

      That forced him to wonder. To wonder about her marriage, which he shouldn’t do. Especially because she had been married to a man that he considered a casual friend.

      “Whatever, Wyatt. I want a drink, not more of your inane commentary.” She turned away from him, clearly frustrated by that interaction. Maybe because she hadn’t managed to verbally maneuver her way to the top of it. “Hi, Laz,” she said as the bartender approached them. “I’d like an IPA.”

      “An IPA,” he said. “Wow.”

      “Do you have a commentary on my choice of beer?” she asked as Laz turned and retrieved a bottle for her.

      “I made my commentary.” He turned his attention to the bartender. “I’ll have whatever you’ve got on tap that isn’t an IPA.”

      “I imagine you have opinions on the masculinity of that beer?”

      “Not particularly. I didn’t ever figure beer had a gender.”

      “You know what I mean,” she said.

      “I just think it’s bad beer. And if I wanted to lick a pine tree I would.”

      “I would almost pay good money to watch you do a wine tasting.”

      “Why is that?”

      “Because I imagine that your palate is as unsophisticated as the rest of you.”

      He chuckled. “And I imagine you think that’s an insult. But, in order for me to feel insulted by that I would have to care.”

      “Thank you,” she said to Laz, ignoring him completely.

      “You can put her terrible drink on my tab too,” Wyatt said, turning away from the bar.

      “Don’t put my drink on your tab,” Lindy said. “Don’t put my drink on his tab,” she said to Laz.

      “Put the drink on my tab,” Wyatt reiterated.

      “I’ll pay for the drink if you don’t knock it off,” Laz said.

      “I can pay for the drink,” Lindy said, through gritted teeth. “Put his drink on my tab.”

      “This isn’t a contest,” he said.

      “I’m not a charity case,” Lindy said. “We are in a business partnership.”

      “I wasn’t treating you like a charity case. I was just going to pay for your drink.”

      She lifted her chin, her expression defiant. “And I don’t need you to.”

      “I’m not really sure why you’re intent on making all of this a battle. We’re working together, remember?”

      “I know,” she said, but she sounded slightly more subdued than she had a moment ago.

      “I swear, I enjoy getting on your nerves, but I’m not actively trying to start a fight with you.”

      She looked skeptical. “Is there a difference?”

      “Yes. I like to tease you. I don’t actually want to make it so the two of us can’t have a conversation.”

      “I don’t like to be teased,” she said, looking at him from beneath blond lashes.

      She looked younger right then. He didn’t know why. It made him want to be nicer. To try to be a little bit more sincere.

      “That’s going to be a problem,” he said. “Because I am what I am.”

      “I didn’t sign on to be teased,” she said. “I just want to make this work.”

      The two of them stepped away from the bar, but didn’t head back to the tables. “So let me ask you this,” he said, a thought occurring to him for the first time. “Did you approach me to make this partnership to get back at Damien?”

      Her expression turned mulish. “Why would you think that?”

      “Because. He’s my friend. You’re his ex-wife.”

      “Do you really consider him a friend?”

      Wyatt shrugged. “I’ll be honest with you, I haven’t talked to him in a couple of months. I’m not part of the rodeo circuit anymore, so we’re not really running in the same circles. Some people