Page 13 of Whoa There Cowboy
So I give. If Campbell can use her fancy media connections to give me an edge, I’ll let her. I’d be a fool to walk away from it.
I just have to keep my eyes on the prize and my hands to myself. Easier said than done when she’s within arm’s reach.
The inside of Earl’s is exactly what it always is on a Friday night: loud, thick with the smell of fried pickles and draft beer, and packed to the gills. The jukebox in the corner is blaring an old George Strait tune, and the wooden dance floor in the center of the room is a blur of moving bodies. This place is a mix of college kids and old timers tonight, and the locals are running the dance floor, putting the wannabes to shame. I smirk to myself.
I stopped by my place on my way here to put on a better shirt, and yeah, maybe I threw on a bit of cologne while I was there. I figured if she was going to show, she’d beat me here. And I spot her quickly.
Campbell’s sitting at a corner booth, looking completely out of place in her Mavericks hoodie and sneakers. She’s staring at her phone like it holds the secrets to the universe, and I’ll never understand how people can type that fast on something that’s barely a few inches wide. I take a moment to take her in, then get her out of my system. Her hair is falling out of whatever clip she had it in earlier, framing a face that’s entirely too pretty for the college frat boys eying her from the pool tables.
Good luck, boys. You’ll have to get through me first.
I head straight for her, keeping the frat boys in my periphery until I reach the table’s edge.
“You gonna stand there and flirt with Sigma Nu, or you gonna go sit down?”
I turn to see an old friend, Renleigh Blackwood, standing behind me, a tray of empty longnecks balanced on her palm. Her eyes shift from me to Campbell, and a knowing, terrifyingly sharp smirk spreads across her face.
“Don’t give me that look,” I warn with a slight eyeroll. Renleigh and I have known each other for most of our lives. We both grew up here. Her dad was my high school coach . . . just like he was my father’s high school coach. The last thing I need right now is Renleigh sticking around and sharing pieces of my history with Campbell.
“She’s been here ten minutes, Jake. Already ordered a diet Coke and asked if the menu had anything organic. I told her the closest thing to organic we have is the dirt on the floor.”
I let out a snort laugh and brush my arm into Renleigh’s. I’d rather poke fun of the city girl with her than endure her probing, nosy gaze.
“Apparently, I need some positive PR,” I add as I take my seat.
“Oh boy. Girl, you’ve got your work cut out for you. This guy might just be a full tear down and new build,” Renleigh teases, giving me a wink.
Campbell laughs at my expense and adds a quick, “Noted.”
I wave Renleigh away, and she goes begrudgingly, promising to put in an order for my usual well-done double burger with fries.
I shake my head and turn my attention to Campbell. The booth is tight, despite being on a corner, and our knees touch.
“Look who took his time getting here,” she says, sliding her phone away after flipping it over to hide the screen. She crosses her arms over her chest and narrows her gaze on my face.
“I was starting to think you were standing me up on purpose,” she says.
I shrug, ignoring the heat clawing at the back of my neck.
“I needed a clean shirt that hasn’t been living in the bottom of my gym bag,” I say. “How’s that for paying attention to my image?”
Her lip inches up on one side with a short, breathy laugh.
“I don’t play games, Campbell,” I add, leaning back and trying to look a hell of a lot more relaxed than I feel. “If I didn’t want you here, I wouldn’t have invited you.”
“Charming.”
Renleigh drops off a basket of fries and a cold draft beer for me, giving me a wink before disappearing. I take a long draw of the beer, letting the cold liquid dull the ache in my shoulder and the sudden tightness in my chest.
Campbell leans forward, resting her elbows on the table.She’s in business mode now. I can see it in the way her posture shifts. She taps the curve of my longneck with her soft pink nail.
“How about we start with maybe not indulging during the season?” Her sweet lips land in a soft smile, not quite judgy but . . . critical.
“So now you’re the fun police?” I set my beer down and scan the tables at Earl’s. There are at least a dozen players in here, and all of them are having a beer with their dinner.
“I see you trying to justify it,” she chastises.
I groan and nudge my beer closer to her.
