Page 11 of Wrangling Wade

It's driving me nuts.

Most nights, he just watches me. And unlike when Danny does it, my skin doesn't crawl. It hums with this energy that makes me want to scream.

This man is slowly unraveling me at the seams, and I don't think he's even trying. He's just…quietly showing up. No onebothers me with him planted at the bar. It's like they all know that he'll crack skulls and break faces if they try.

I'm irrational enough to be a little bit mad about that, too. Why does it take another man to make men behave themselves? Infuriating!

"Thanks, beautiful," he says, grinning up at me.

"I'd offer you a beer, but…"

"Don't need one," he says, the same way he has every other night. I think he may be the only sober cowboy in the bar. He never drinks while he's here. He just…watches.

What does he want?

"What does Morgan have on you?" I decide to ask, propping a hip against the bar, a towel in one hand.

"What?" His brows furrow.

"What does Morgan have on you?" I repeat. "I mean, whatever it is must be juicy. You're here for seven to eight hours a night, without pay, and I know cowboys are up at the ass crack of dawn, doing cowboy things. So…what does she have on you?"

His lips twitch. "Cowboy things?"

"Riding stuff. Wrangling stuff. Branding stuff." I tick each item off on my fingers. "Destroying stuff. Catching stuff. General mayhem and anarchy. Cowboy stuff," I repeat.

A deep chuckle rolls from his lips. "So, now we're anarchists, huh?"

I sweep a pointed gaze around the bar. Like usual, it's loud as hell, the smell of sweat, dust, and leather damn near as strong as the alcohol. Until him, I didn't think such a thing as a quiet cowboy even existed. They're rowdy, disorderly, and there's not a filter to be found in the whole lot. "Y'all might be God-fearing men, but we both know damn well you cowboys also put the fear of God into men. So yeah, mayhem and anarchy," I repeat.

He throws his head back, his loud laugh echoing this time. "I guess that about sums it up, baby."

"You going to answer my question?"

"She doesn't have anything on me," he says, meeting my gaze. I swear, I could get lost in his warm brown eyes. There's something so damn soft andsafein them. "I lost a bet."

I blink, not sure I heard him correctly. "Come again?"

"Would love to," he mutters under his breath. At least, I think that's what he says, but then he grins at me, and I get stuck on stupid. I swear to God, that smile should come with a warning label. "I said, I lost a bet. Well, it's more like she swindled me."

"So…you're here because you lost a bet?"

He grimaces. "That sounds a lot more fucked up than it is. I'm here because I choose to be here, but she asked me to come originally because of the bet. Make sense?"

"What was the bet?"

"She bet me that she could outdrink me. If she won, I owed her a favor."

A slow, amused smile stretches across my face, my gaze flicking up and down his giant body. He's at least a foot taller than she is, and probably has a good hundred pounds on her. "Morgan outdrank you?"

"Hell yeah, she did." He chuckles, completely unashamed. "The girl drinks like a pirate. I'm just a fuc…just a cowboy. She's a professional."

I laugh, truly delighted. "Good for her," I say, amused as hell. I would have loved to see his face when he realized he was losing that bet.

A cowboy in a dented Stetson steps up beside Wade, politely requesting another beer. He nods at Wade, but barely even glances at me, instead keeping his dark eyes firmly on the bar.

I sigh heavily, turning to get what he wants.

"Thanks, Harlow," he murmurs, leaving a wad of cash on the bar before he hurries away.