Page 3 of Haunted Spurs

Too late.

He catches my exasperated huff, but doesn’t seem remotely bothered. Instead, his blue eyes brighten with amusement.

“I didn’t say, baby.” A deep dimple appears in his right cheek. Did he really have to have dimples too? “I’m Ron. Ron Willers.”

“Ron Willers.” I test it on my tongue. It sounds damn good. Just like the rest of him.

“So, writer…” Ron tilts his head toward the back of the bar. His Stetson casts a soft shadow over his jaw. “Elm Hollow rules say you never leave a lady alone at the bar. One game of pool. You win, I do whatever you want. I win… you explain exactly how dirty those books of yours really are.”

A country boy wanting to play with fire. Cute.

I slip my notebook into my bag. "Alright, new cowboy. But don’t try the whole ‘let me teach you’ thing—I already know how to play."

Ron laughs, warm and low, landing right in my stomach. He pushes off the bar and heads for the pool tables. I follow, my eyes catching—against my better judgment—the way his back muscles move under the plaid flannel with every step.

He grabs two cues from the rack, chalks the tip of one with a blue cube, and hands it to me. His fingers brush mine. A sharp, searing jolt of electricity shoots up my arm.

I clear my throat, ignoring the feeling.

I line up for the break. I take all the time in the world. I spread my legs slightly, arching my back, and press my chest against the edge of the table. My tight skirt rides up a few inches. I don't look at him, but I can feel his eyes on me.

Yeah... I like to play. And if I'm taking the night off, I might as well savor every second of it.

"Are you sure you want to know what my books are about?" I start, my voice a murmur that cuts right through the noise of the saloon. "There's not a lot of lights-out missionary romance."

I strike the cue ball. A sharp clack. The balls fan out across the green felt in a perfect break.

I straighten up with a wicked smirk, swiping the blue chalk over the tip of my cue.

Ron leans on his cue, ankles crossed, watching me. A lazy, amused smile tugs at his lips. Not a trace of discomfort.

“No lights out. Copy that.” He straightens and unbuttons the cuffs of his flannel shirt with easy confidence, rolling them up to reveal thick, veined forearms.

He isn't trying to be sexy. He just is.

He leans over the table. His posture is relaxed, yet the muscles in his back tense magnificently. He sinks a solid with a smooth, precise stroke.

"And then what?" he prompts, standing back up. "I'm all ears, Selene."

I freeze for half a second.

How does he know my nam—ah, he must’ve heard it from the bartender.

I pull myself together and move around the table, my arm brushing his as I pass.

His scent hits me all over again.

"I write about control," I murmur, bending over my shot. "About dark, ruthless men. Men who take a woman, tie her wrists to a wrought-iron headboard, and don't let her speak. They push her to the edge until she forgets how she even ended up in that bed. And then the women do the exact same thing to them."

I sink my ball and look at him out of the corner of my eye.

If he folds now... it means he doesn’t even deserve one night with me.

Yeah, I'm entirely done settling for mediocre sex and idiots who have no idea what they're doing.

Ron walks around the table, stopping directly in front of me. Our eyes lock. The blue of his eyes has darkened, turning stormy and intense.

But what short-circuits my brain is that he doesn’t look intimidated at all.