Page 47 of Homebound

WYATT

Dakota’s red sundress has the tiniest straps I’ve ever seen. How the hell is that thing staying up?

Some cowboy whistles across the hazy bar. “You’re lookin’ real good tonight, Killer! Save a dance for me, would ya?”

I clench my long-necked beer. Can’t catch a break.

“Thanks, Brodie,” she calls back. “But I’m gonna have to pass on that.”

“Brutal!” someone shouts, and the group of cowboys laugh.

She sips her purple-pink margarita, but all I’m focused on are the amount of looks she’s getting in that dress—that damn red sundress. I’ve had to keep my arm around her shoulders all night to ward off all these cowboys.

“Look at you in that pretty little dress,” I murmur, tugging her closer to my side, ramping up the flirting. “You’re driving everyone in here wild.”

“Aw, you think my dress is pretty, Patterson? Thanks,” she says, completely unaffected as she ducks out from under my grasp to say hello to the cowboys.

Dammit.

Margaritas tend to turn her scowl into a grin, so she’s been handing out shiny smiles to everyone tonight. I release a frustrated groan, dropping my arm to my side.

After we finished getting ready, Dakota put her cowgirl-riding plan into action and dragged me to The General—a podunk dive bar/dance hall/restaurant that was named after the Granite Falls general store that was established in 1871.

The place has so many beer stains that all the pool tables look discolored, and there’s a permanent haze in the air thanks to the bikers who never follow the no smoking sign.

It’s nestled in the middle of the old town square, and they’ve got a revolving door of country cover bands that play every night with at least three encores. There’s also this smoky scent that sticks on your clothes more than a campfire, but it’s home. I’ve seen at least twenty familiar faces here.

My cousin, Willie (not Nelson, he always clarifies) works the grungy bar. He’s got to clarify since the guy’s got a brown mullet, caveman beard, and always wears a red bandana.

“You want another round, Patty?” Willie grits out, patting the counter. “You look like you need a drink.”

Our Willie’s in his late twenties, but it’s impossible to tell his age with all that dark facial hair. His only distinguishing feature is his bright-blue eyes that are almost turquoise. Caribbean eyes, my mama always said.

I shift on my beat-up, torn leather-back chair that’s duct taped together. “Nah, I’m still nursing my beer. Thanks, Willie.”

He flicks a bar towel over his shoulder. “We missed you down here, Patty. I know you’re a hotshot hockey player, but don’t forget about us small-towners.”

I hold out my fist, and he bumps it back. “Never, my man. My body might be on the ice, but my heart’s here in Texas.”

“You ever think about transferring down south?”

“Every day,” I admit.

There’s a reason everyone in the country is flocking to the Lone Star State (a.k.a. Texas) in droves, and it’s not for the cowboys. People are down-to-earth, open-minded, and know how to have a damn good time.

I’ve missed it here.

I’ve heard Austin’s getting a new NHL team, and I’ve thought about transferring. It’s sounding like a good choice, but part of me is worried about leaving Cruz.

“Please come back to Texas,” Dakota begs with a lopsided smile, popping up out of nowhere. “That would be so much fun for us. Our kids could be best friends too!”

I wince at the thought of putting my future son through that absolute torture, but still chuckle at her half-drunk state. “I’ll think about it.”

“Willie!” a bar patron shouts, grabbing his attention. He moves to the opposite side of the scarred wooden counter, leaving me standing there with Dakota as she sips a margarita.

She sniffs me. “Have I ever told you that you smell like heaven? I love the way mountain laurels smell. Like sweet, floral grape Kool-Aid. It’s my favorite.”

I pull her closer into my side, murmuring against her cheek. “Yeah, I know it’s your favorite.”