Page 12 of Wrangling Wade

I tuck it into the register before turning back to Wade, who hasn't taken his eyes off me the entire time.

"How do you know Morgan?" he asks after a moment.

"We met in town."

He cocks his head to the side, studying me. "Why haven't I ever seen you around town before?"

"Maybe because I just moved?" Mom and I lived in Midnight Falls until I was thirteen, but eventually, the drive back and forth to Houston to see the specialists got to be too much for her, so we packed up and moved. I wanted to stay after she passed, but…well, there's only so much you can do in a city like Houston.

"How come?"

"Houston is an expensive city," I mutter, avoiding his gaze. "And since my art doesn't pay the bills yet…" I just shrug, not really interested in telling this man my whole sad story, not tonight.

"Are you a sculptor like your mom?" he asks.

I startle, nearly dropping the towel. "What?"

"Your mom was Lynnie Spencer, right? The sculptor?"

"I…yeah." I clear my throat. "Yeah, that's my mom."

His expression softens, his hand landing on top of mine on the bar. His fingers are rough and calloused, but gentle. "I'm sorry you lost her, Harlow."

For a minute, I feel like I can't breathe. There's a lump the size of Texas in my throat, and I can't swallow past it, either. And then he squeezes my fingers. That simple act steadies me, allowing me to pull in a deep breath.

"Thank you," I whisper, trying to pull myself together. Shocked he knows enough about me to know who my mom is or that she died. Just…completely off-balanced by this cowboy.

"What kind of art do you do?"

"Drawing and painting," I whisper.

His lips curve into another of those charming smiles. "Yeah? You going to draw something for me?"

I'm not really surprised by the request. Most people ask when they find out that I draw. I usually turn them down, simply because people devalue art and artists far too much. They would never work for free, but they expect artists to do it, and that annoys me. But I hesitate this time, simply because I've been itching to draw him since I saw him standing beside Danny last week. I'm desperate to capture the softness in his eyes, and the way his lips curve when he's amused.

"Maybe," I say.

The way he smiles at me has my heart ready to beat out of my chest. And I know damn well that isn't a good thing.

"I, uh, I should get back to work," I mutter, taking a quick step back.

His hand falls from on top of mine, landing flat against the bar. He leaves it there, his fingers touching mine, his eyes locked with mine.

"You do that, beautiful," he practically purrs. "I'll be right here."

I gulp, spinning away to find something—anything—to do.

Midway through my shiftthe next night, I place a sheet of paper on the bar in front of him, face down.

"What's this?" he asks, glancing from it to me.

"You asked me to draw something for you last night." I shrug nervously. "I had a few minutes."

His eyes light up before he even flips it over, and then they widen. One thick, calloused finger traces the charcoal lines. They aren't great. There's only so much you can do in a bar when you're constantly being interrupted. But…it's not a bad likeness, either.

I didn't quite capture the softness of his eyes, but it's a half-decent first attempt. He's seated right where he is now, staring off into the distance, his face in profile, his hat pulled low. He looks rugged and beautiful at the same time, just like he does sitting there every night.

"Goddamn, baby," he whispers, shock and awe in his voice. "You just did this?"