Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 110113 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 551(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110113 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 551(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
My eyes fly open as I hit a solid wall of man. Beer spills everywhere, soaking my shirt as a hand—big, warm, grip firm—curls around my upper arm.
CHAPTER 2
Ava
HANDSOME STRANGERS AND SERIAL KILLERS
“Oh, God, I am so”—glancing over my shoulder, I lock eyes with a very tall, very hot guy wearing a backward baseball hat—“sorry.”
My stomach takes a nosedive at the look of genuine concern in his cobalt-blue eyes.
“You okay?” he shouts above the sound of the music.
I nod, pulse taking off at a sprint. “You? I’m so sorry.”
This guy is the kind of handsome that makes it hard to breathe. He’s sporting dark scruff, thicker along his upper lip. His facial features rival Brad Pitt’s in masculine beauty—straight nose, square jaw, full mouth.
He releases my arm before his eyes flick to my torso. A pair of indents appear between his brows. “Your shirt. Here, I have some wipes—napkins. I’ll get you some napkins—”
The way he stumbles over his words is adorable.
Also, did he just say wipes?
“I’m okay, really—”
“You’re soaked.” He tilts his head toward the bar. “C’mon, let’s clean you up.”
Without waiting for a reply, he heads off the dance floor. I take the opportunity to shamelessly check him out.
He’s gorgeous. He’s well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and big arms that fill out his dark green checkered button-up to perfection. He’s wearing Levi’s that are somehow fitted and broken in at the same time. Square-toed cowboy boots complete the ensemble, along with that backward hat that reads Bellamy Brooks Boots.
Is he a cowboy?
As a girl who grew up on a ranch—albeit a small one—that’s my first thought. I’ve always had eyes for cowboys. Who doesn’t? But everyone tells you they’re trouble, so I never pursued one. Didn’t help that I started dating Dan at seventeen.
Everyone, men and women, ogle this guy as he moves across the room.
Dottie appears at my elbow. “I think you’re supposed to follow him.”
“I’ll hip-check you again if you don’t,” Bee says.
I glare at her. “Did you do that on purpose?”
Knitting her brows together, she shrugs. “No?”
“Bee—”
“What? I saw him checking you out. He’s hot. You’re hot. I could tell he wanted to say hi, so I did y’all a solid and broke the ice. Remember, the more frogs you kiss—”
“Right.” My heart skips several beats.
Mr. Mustached Maybe Cowboy was checking me out? I didn’t even notice.
Dottie’s eyes bore into mine. “Follow him.”
I glance across the bar. Somehow my eyes find his. My stomach does that nosediving thing again. He holds up a stack of square bar napkins.
His mustache looks more prominent from far away. I like it.
A lot.
My shirt is soaked. And why not flirt a little, enjoy myself a bit? If it’s awkward or weird, I can just come back to dance with my sisters.
He is so much cuter than, well, every other man in existence.
Finishing what’s left of my beer, I head for the bar. It’s not quiet over here, but it is quieter.
Quiet enough that I can hear Mustached Maybe Cowboy say as he looks me up and down, “Aw, man, I got you good, didn’t I? I’m real sorry.”
His words drip with a honeyed drawl. I resist the urge to bite my lip. Okay, the accent is hot.
Really freaking hot.
“Don’t be. I’m the one who bumped into you.”
He holds out the napkins. I set my empty bottle down on the bar and take them, blotting self-consciously at my shirt.
“Or, really, I was pushed. Seriously, I’m so sorry about that. My sister—”
“Is an enthusiastic fan of Johnny Cash.” A dimple pops in both cheeks as he grins. “I don’t blame her. ‘Ring of Fire’ will get anyone riled up.”
“That’s why I requested it. Although now I kind of regret that decision.”
“Regret Johnny?” He makes a psssh sound. “Never. I was about to drop some money in that bucket myself, but you beat me to it.”
I grin, looking up. Our eyes lock again, and my internal organs all somersault in unison. There’s an intensity to his gaze that makes the sounds and sights of the bar sort of … fade away.
Maybe because his eyes are so, so blue? I’ve never seen a color like that before—the deep, vibrant cobalt of brand-new denim.
“That so?” I’m practically staring at this point. “What song were you going to request?”
His dimples deepen. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”
I blush so furiously that it feels like my face is on fire. I still know how to flirt, right?
I sincerely hope I do.
Looking down, I notice the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, revealing impossibly huge, deeply tanned forearms. One of them is tattooed with a line of large, elegant script—Ella. His mom? Maybe his kid?
“Are you asking me to body-slam you again?” I nod at the dance floor. “I know I’m hard to resist out there.”