Slow Hand (Hot Cowboy Nights, #1)(20)

“That bad?” he asked.

“The salt is supposed to reduce the burn, but I don’t think it works.”

“Would you like something else?” Wade asked.

“No, I don’t think it’s a good idea to mix liquors. I’ll stay with my friend Patrón.”

He nodded at her empty glass. “You want another?”

You know better, she told herself, staring at his dangerously tempting dimpled chin. He’s made no secret about what he’s after. The last thing you need is to let your guard down. Ignoring the voice of reason, she smiled back at him. “Sure. Why not?”

Two shots later, Nikki felt a sweet lethargy, the kind induced only by drink or sex. Since they were still in the bar, she had a pretty good idea it was the drink. She ordered a third and took her sweet time licking off the salt. She rarely drank tequila and had ordered it purely to tease him. From his expression, it was working.

“I think we need some music,” she said.

“Why? You wanna dance?”

“Maybe,” she answered coyly.

“Too bad there’s no band tonight. The one that usually plays here packs the house.”

“Are they good?” she asked.

“If you like a mix of blues and rock in your country. Ten Foot Tall and Eighty Proof. They play all around the area. If you stick around long enough, I’ll bring you back to hear them.”

“Do you dance, Wade?”

“Not really, but if you feel like dancing”—he patted his lap—“knock yourself out.”

“Keep dreamin’.” Nikki rolled her eyes with a snort. She then idly flipped through the playlist attached to the old-timey jukebox on the tabletop. “Got any quarters on you?”

“Why? You got a favorite song?”

She flashed him a dazzling smile. “I got your song, Wade.”

“My song? Really? What is it?”

“You’ll see.” With a throaty chuckle, Nikki dropped the coins he gave her into the machine, and then made her selection. The sultry tones of Carrie Underwood filled the air. “See?” She laughed. “I’ve totally got your number, Wade.”

“‘Cowboy Casanova’?” He speared her with those amazingly clear and sexy light blue eyes. “Is that what you think I am?”

“Yeah, I do. A big-time sexy cowboy player, but I don’t do players and for damned sure not sexy chin-dimpled cowboys.”

“Sexy?” His brow kicked up. “You think so? Then, I’m confounded to understand this aversion of yours.”

“It’s been acquired by experience,” she replied, carefully enunciating her words with lips that felt warm and a bit numb. “Every damn time I’ve fallen for one it’s bitten me in the ass.”

“So you think one bad apple—”

“One?” She laughed outright. “I’ve tried a whole crate full of apples, Wade. All bad. Worm-infested and rotten to the core, every last one of ’em.” She struggled a bit with the l but thought she managed to keep the slur out of her reply. Even her toes felt warm and tingly now.

“Sounds like a real challenge to overcome such a fierce dislike of apples.”

“Yeah. No more apples for me. Ever.”

“Ever?” He cocked a brow. “Maybe you just need to try a hybrid variety.”

“A hybrid? You mean like a Honeycrisp?”

“Not quite the analogy I was aiming for. Maybe we need to progress from fruit to the animal kingdom.”

“Whadya mean?”

“I told you my brother Dirk has been crossing Japanese bulls with Angus cows to create a superior breed. I like to think I’m kinda like that.”

“Like a bull?” Her gaze dropped to his groin. “That’s quite a boast.”

He grinned back at her. “Not exactly what I meant, but I’ll go with it. Then again, maybe I’ll let you be the judge.”

She frowned. “Not likely, cowboy. You see, you’ve already got a third strike against you.”

“Three now, eh?”

“Oh yeah. ’Cause I don’t like lawyers either. Never have. So three strikes means you’re out.”

“Only in baseball, darlin’. But we’re mixing far too many metaphors now. I think we need to go back to your classification system. It’s flawed.”

“Whadya mean?”

“You ignore the fact that sometimes crossing two different breeds can result in the best combination of both.”

“Or the worst,” she interjected.

“I argue the proof’s in the puddin’, darlin’. I think that’s what you need, Nikki, a man who’s the best of both—one who knows how to act domesticated and when to be wild.”

“Act domesticated?”

“Well, yeah. With men it’s only an act anyway. We aren’t meant to be domesticated. But a woman wants one who knows how to fake it, how to be tender and sensitive when she needs it.”

“Is that so?” She placed her hand on his arm and leaned in real close. “And how well do you fake it, Wade?”

“You really want to know?”

“I do. I really, really do,” she insisted.

Damn. Why had she gone for the tequila? She should have settled for a beer. Maybe it was a subconscious sabotage. If he got her drunk, she could hardly blame herself in the morning for tumbling headlong into his bed. The more she drank, the less complicated the issue seemed. She deserved some fun for a change—and why not a bit of Wild West Wade?