Gin Fling (Bootleg Springs, #5)(56)

On stage, the fiddler kicked up her hand-stitched cowboy boots, flashing her long legs under a short denim skirt, her long blonde curls bouncing under the stage lights. Jonah would’ve noticed her. Heck, any red-blooded American man would have noticed her.

And then there was me. In my geeky glasses. My lack of makeup. My wardrobe that existed for only two purposes: working out and sitting on my butt in front of a computer. I made it too easy to miss me. To skim over me and see only pretty fiddlers.

“This is giving me a lot to think about,” I told the table.

“Are you seriously takin’ notes right now?” Scarlett asked, amused.

“Let us know if you make anything happen,” Cassidy said with a suggestive eyebrow wiggle.

“Do not feel obliged to keep me updated,” June insisted.

“All right. I’ve answered your questions,” I said, tucking my phone away. “Now, tell me when you’re going to take my survey, Scarlett.”

“I will take your survey when you bag my brother,” she said, crossing her arms smugly.

Only in Bootleg Springs.

“Now that Scarlett’s done selling off her brother into sexual servitude,” Cassidy said with a grin. “I have some news.”

We all perked up, leaning in to hear over the sounds of boots stomping and drinks being drunk.

“Bowie and I are getting married, y’all.”

We continued to look expectantly at her, waiting for the actual news.

“We made that assumption when you accepted his proposal,” June observed.

“Correction,” Cassidy continued. “Bowie and I are getting married next month.”

Scarlett’s screech drowned out June’s cordial congratulations and the band itself. “How are we going to find you a dress, a venue, a band, and a bartender in one month, Cassidy Ann?” Scarlett demanded, shaking her friend by the shoulders and then hugging her tight.

“There y’all are,” Leah Mae hurried up to our table and drew up a chair. “I had to follow the sound of Scarlett’s screams to find you. It’s packed in here tonight!”

“What took you so long?” Cassidy asked.

“Oh, nothing much. Just drawing up some sketches for a certain somebody’s wedding dress,” Leah Mae said smugly.

“Give them to me right now,” Cassidy said, making grabby motions with her hands.

We talked wedding plans and futures. Bridesmaids dresses and honeymoon venues. But my thoughts were on Jonah. How I would go from sharing his bed to sharing his bed? Did he really want me, or was he too nice to reject me?





*



Q. Where in your community do you feel the most welcome?



Rhett Ginsler: The Lookout on a Friday night. It’s got everything you need. Beer. Pool. Music. Neighbors. Someone’s always willing to blow off a little steam with a fight. Good times.





30





Shelby





“Have any nightmares last night?” I asked, sucking in a breath as we crested a slow rolling hill on the road. My legs were on fire. My hands cramped into claws on the handlebar. I forced them to relax. But it was a good kind of pain. The kind of challenge to push through. I was learning the difference between what to push through and what to acknowledge.

Last night, I’d introduced Jonah to my guilty pleasure: horror movies. He’d been a good sport about it.

“Not unless you count waking up to Billy Ray’s cold wet nose in the small of my back,” he said.

Fifteen minutes after his rude awakening and a potty break for the dog, I’d woken to Jonah’s morning wood in the small of my back when he’d climbed back into bed and draped an arm over my waist.

I’d looked over my shoulder, and we’d stared at each other for a long, heated thirty seconds before Billy Ray realized we were both awake and made his desperate plea for attention.

Jonah was annoyingly not winded. He looked like he could ride for fifty miles without getting tired. Meanwhile, I was struggling with sprint triathlon distances. A 750-meter swim, a 12.2-mile bike ride, and a 3.1-mile run. My illness made me more sore, feel more joint pain than the average healthy adult. But I was learning to pay attention and make better choices, thanks in large part to my sexually unavailable roommate.

I’d slogged my way through a 500-meter swim this morning and was pleased with my improved time. It wasn’t going to set a course record, but it was a hell of a lot better than what I’d accomplished on my own. We’d dropped Billy Ray off with Gibson this morning and headed out for a ten-mile ride before Jonah’s birthday party tonight.

And after the party?

I was going to seduce the birthday boy. I would be showered, made up, hair styled, and sexed up. He would be putty in my hands. Wait, no. He would be achingly hard—

“How you feeling?” Jonah called over his shoulder.

I dragged my thoughts away from Naked Jonah. Eight miles into the ride and I was starting to think that maybe, just maybe, I had a shot at finishing next month.

“Good,” I puffed.

Sweat trickled down my back to the waistband of my shorts. It was a sensation I was learning to get used to and maybe even enjoy. I still preferred the swim. I liked sinking into the water, letting it muffle all my senses. But the bike was fun, too. Unless you took into consideration how much it hurt getting hit with a bumblebee as you flew down a hill.