Page 3 of Rory Rides Her Fake Fiancé
I pay attention to TikTok.
“Well, I’ll leave you two to your foreplay. Here.” Kit stands, takes the cowboy hat off, and offers it to me. I duck down and he settles it onto my head.
“Cowboys tomorrow?”
“Cowboys tomorrow,” Kit confirms. “See you at ten.” He heads toward the back to see Hunter, and the two of them do our handshake, but it’s the full-body version that ends in a big long hug. Like, so long it often turns into a slow dance when there’s music playing. Kit’s an exceptionally good hugger, and I don’t think he ever pulls away first.
“Lemme guess,” Rory says after I return my attention to her. Her voice has a nice low rumble that I like. The kind of voice romantics say sounds like whiskey and smoke.
Who me? You think I’m a romantic?
It’s gettin’ there.
“He’s your BFF.” She takes on a higher-pitched, mocking voice.
Aw. She’s so cute.
“Since elementary school,” I confirm. “Used to pass notes and play pranks and generally get into trouble together. Still do.”
“Oh. Em. Gee,” she deadpans. “You rebel. Serious troublemaker with that cowboy hat on.”
“Hey.” I lean forward, holding her gaze and pointing at the hat. “I get paid to wear this hat. Kit’s my boss too.”
Rory screws up her mouth and looks around. On the Rocks is the only part of Sirens Valley Lodge Ski Resort that’s open all year round. “He owns this place? And I’ve never seen you wear a cowboy hat to bartend before.”
“No. That’s my other boss, Hunter, the GM of Sirens. Kit’s the boss at my second job.”
“What’s your other job? Rodeo clown?”
“Hey, that’s not a bad idea.” I rub my chin. “All those masked men thirst traps on socials. I bet there are some people that have a clown kink.”
Rory’s eyes unfocus for a bit and then snap back to me. “What then?”
I grin. “Well, I’ll give you a hint.”
I walk to the end of the bar and fiddle with my phone, changing the music to something genre-appropriate.
And then, I start to take my clothes off.
Rory
* * *
“Hey, Cowboy” by Devon Cole starts playing on the sound system, louder than the previous song that was cut off, but Morgan still keeps his back to me. His flannel shirt shifts and tugs against his broad shoulders, so he’s clearly doing something and hiding it from my view.
I take a swig of my beer to keep myself from staring at his ass. It’s a great ass—narrow waist tapering down to worn jeans. One of the pockets has a hole in the bottom.
God damn it, I’m staring. Again.
The people at the end of the bar start watching whatever Morgan’s doing. This includes the really pretty white woman around our age who walked in earlier and made me irrationally jealous—seriously, all he did was smile at her. He smiles at everyone so why did I hate it? There’s a lot of laughter and someone starts catcalling. What the hell is happening?
The chorus hits and Morgan spins around, dramatically ripping his flannel shirt open.
Holy shit.
He yanks the shirt out from his jeans and grabs the long handle of something, coming through the pass-through to this side of the bar. At this point, everyone’s cheering him on, singing along to the song.
I’m already distracted by his abs. His torso is smooth and tanned, black ink up and down the side, on his chest, and a half sleeve on one shoulder. A deep V-cut draws my eyes farther south.
