9. Emery

9

EMERY

Woody had shown his cards with that question and he knew it.

“What’s so funny?” he groused.

I tapped my chin, enjoying his discomfort. “Help me understand something, Mr. Lockwood.” Woody shifted in his seat, and I asked, “Why is my use of that app any concern of yours?”

He shifted again, then cursed under his breath.

“Well?” I asked, unable to hide my smile.

“I don’t care what you say, McAvoy. I think you’re taking advantage of my cousin, and I won’t stand for it.”

I shook my head. “I don’t believe for one hot second that you’re genuinely worried about Rowdy. Aside from the fact that he’s an adult who can handle himself just fine, if we were sleeping together, and had an arrangement where I still got some on the side, none of that’s any of your fucking business.”

“My cousin is my business,” he said, gravel in his voice.

“I already told you I’m not sleeping with him, Woody. Nor would I ever because he’s an employee and I don’t fuck my employees.”

The truth of the matter was, I’d fuck Woody into the mattress, employee or not. But he didn’t need to know that.

Before Woody could open his mouth, a hot cowboy a little older than me made his way into the bar. Like the college kid before him, he slid in between Woody and me to place his order with Lou.

“Excuse me, Warwick ,” Woody said to the man’s back as he ordered three pints. “We’re in the middle of a conversation.”

“Actually, we’re in the middle of an argument, and I, for one, appreciate the interruption, handsome,” I said, shooting the hot cowboy my widest, most appreciative grin.

He parked himself in front of Woody, ignoring the irritated huff as he returned my smile. “Well, hey there. You must be new around here. My friends call me Wick. What’s your name?”

I realized I’d heard that name before. “You’re from Rebel Sky, aren’t you?”

“I sure am, but how’d you know that?”

“I adopted Blanche for my daughter. Joaquin helped me and he mentioned you rather fondly, if I recall. He’s your...boyfriend?” I asked, knowing the answer.

Joaquin was one of the ranch foremen and drop-dead gorgeous to boot. Aside from his thick salt and pepper hair and ready smile, Joaquin—who was originally from Argentina—had a delicious accent.

“Partner, actually. And that’s awesome. Blanche was a cool little pony. How’s your daughter getting along with her?”

“Pretty sure they’ve melded into one being at this point.”

“Aw, that’s good to hear.” Shooting a shit-eating grin over his shoulder, he asked, “So what’re you doing here arguing with the official Poet Laureate of the Texas Hill Country?”

Woody looked fit to be tied, but he pressed his mouth into a thin line.

Before I could crack a joke at his expense, Joaquin and an adorable cub walked into the bar.

Lou placed the beers on the bar and Warwick grabbed them, cradling the three bottles in his work-rough hands as he lifted his chin toward Woody. “If you get bored tilting at windmills with this one, join me and my guys. We’re a helluva lot more entertaining, I can promise you that.”

I let my eyes drift down his taut body. “I’m enjoying myself plenty, but I will keep that in mind.”

He bit at his lower lip. “You do that.”

Wick joined his two men—and they were definitely his men—distributing the beers as they found a dark corner. I let out a low whistle. Those three looked like a damned good time.

Eventually, I returned my attention to Woody, who looked like he was about to pop a blood vessel. Livid didn’t even begin to cover it.

“What crawled up your ass and died?” I asked, then smiled into a sip of beer.

“You did not just flirt with Warwick in front of me.”

Oh, honey.

I crooked my finger at him and he sat back in defiance, crossing his arms, almost as if he were challenging me to a staring contest. So, I let myself look. I tracked his slightly overlong hair, the angry brows, and silver-blue eyes. I also noted a slight crookedness to his nose before lingering on his pouty lips.

They’d look beautiful stretched over my thick?—

“Fine,” he said, interrupting my train of thought as he leaned in. “What do you have to say that’s so important?”

“Oh, nothing much,” I responded, closing the gap between us. Close enough to whisper, I lowered my voice. “Only that you seem awfully invested in who I might or might not be fucking, James. I wonder why that is?”

His eyes widened—he wasn’t the only one who could use Google to get details on his neighbors—and before he could sputter a retort, I sat back and took another drink. His spiteful glower made my dick twitch, and I winked at him.

“Fuck off, Emery.”

“You first, Woody,” I said with a smile as something Wick said finally landed. “Wait. Warwick called you the official Poet Laureate of the Texas Hill Country. What the hell did he mean by that?”

“None of your goddamned business,” he said as color crept into his cheeks.

I wasn’t sure why his ire made me want to drag him to his knees and push my cock past those surly fucking lips, but damn, I wanted his mouth on me.

That wasn’t happening today, so instead I went in another direction.

I turned to Lou. “You know what? I’m going to join the gentlemen back there. Put their beers on my tab.”

“No problem, sugar,” she said, catching my eye.

That was odd, but then she gave a very deliberate look to the side. I followed her line of sight and spied a set of built-in shelves at the end of the bar, packed with several narrow paperbacks. I got up and brushed past Woody. I approached the books and ran my finger along the familiar spines.

Holy hell.

I knew these books.

I’d practically memorized them.

If she was saying that Woody had written these, I was in more trouble than I’d originally thought. Deep fucking trouble.

I pulled out my favorite volume and turned to him. “You’re W. Locke?”

Woody aimed a sharp glare at Lou. She shrugged and kept wiping down the bar, unconcerned with his murderous look. I’m guessing the people around here were used to it from him.

“Yeah. So?”

God, no wonder his bitter attitude turned me on. It was a cover for the sensitive poet underneath. Maybe that was romanticizing things a little—okay, a lot —but I’d read this man’s words, felt them in my soul. How many times had I secretly wished I could meet the guy who made me sentimental about the Texas landscape, of all things?

Now that I had him in front of me, I ached with the idea of pushing inside his tight, ornery ass. I wanted to drag him out of this bar and fuck him against my truck, then drag him into my bed and tease out every bit of pleasure until he was drunk on it.

I was pretty sure he’d spit in my face if I propositioned him, and that thought turned me on way more than it should’ve.

“Wanna hear something ironic, poet-man?” I asked, biting my inner cheek to hide the smile.

“No,” he snarled, still mentally eviscerating our bartender.

“Too bad. I’m gonna tell you anyway.”

I waited for his gorgeous, hateful eyes to find their way back to me, and it didn’t take long.

“You despise that I moved next door to you and it’s your words that convinced me to do it.”

That got his attention. His mouth dropped open. “What?”

“I love poetry. And you are my favorite poet.” I opened the book I’d taken to a random page. “ And on a spring evening, if you’re lucky enough, the purple-violet field of blue bonnets bleeds into the violet night sky, a near perfect reflection of the universe.”

I closed the book and lightly bonked his nose with it. “That’s pretty special, man.”

He snatched the book out of my hands. “I know that. You don’t need to read my own words to me like I don’t know what I fuckin’ wrote.”

I caught Lou’s eye. “The poetry just spills out of him, doesn’t it?”

“Like a faucet,” she replied, not the least concerned with his wilting ire. “You two should go on the road together.”

“Y’all are fuckin’ hilarious,” he spat out, dismounting the barstool with the same grace as he dismounted Shadow. He stalked up to the mini library at the end of the bar and shoved the book back in place.

“Can’t believe I live right next door to a Pulitzer Prize-winning poet,” I teased as he returned and climbed back onto the barstool.

“That don’t mean nothin’.”

“Bullshit,” Lou interjected, finally annoyed. “Your words are something special, Woody. You may not like the accolades for yourself, but you’re damn sure not going to ignore what they mean to this community.”

Ignoring the vibrating bit of rage next to me, I leaned forward. “So, when Wick called him a Poet Laureate, was that really an official designation?” I asked as another guy walked into the bar.

She smiled wide as she pulled a pint for him and handed it over. “Yup. The local representative gave him a plaque and everything.”

“I can’t imagine he’d show up for a ceremony.”

“He didn’t. The rep brought it here and waited for him.”

I laughed into my beer and Woody growled, “Would you two stop talking about me like I’m not here?”

Lou raised her brow at him. “I don’t know, Woody. Are you going to stop acting like an asshole when you have no cause to?”

Woody wrinkled his nose. “You don’t know what kind of neighbor he is.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s an absolute nightmare. He employed your cousin, gave him a place to stay, isn’t sexually harassing him, and didn’t you just tell me last week that the little zonkey, or whatever, is doing well under his care?”

I turned to Woody, wanting to grab him and kiss him so badly that I had to clench my fists. “You said something nice about me? Bet that hurt.”

“Like a kidney stone,” he muttered, repeating an earlier sentiment.

“Poor, tortured Woody,” I simpered, wishing I could run my nose up that stubborn neck of his and breathe in his scent. “Tell you what: I’ll do you a favor. I’ll leave you here, alone with your thoughts.”

After peeling away from the bar, I angled toward the trio in the back. I couldn’t quite make out what Woody was saying under his breath, but I was pretty sure he was cursing a blue streak as I approached the table with the three very distinct, very sexy gentlemen.

“Decided you wanted a friendlier crowd?” Wick asked.

“You know it,” I said, scooting in next to Joaquin, who bussed my cheek.

“These are my guys. You already know Joaquin, and this here is Colt,” Wick said, bringing the cub in for a sassy kiss.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Emery. And, just puttin’ my cards on the table here, I’m only here to piss off Woody. Hope y’all don’t mind me using you for that.”

Colt laughed, his freckles adorable under the neon lights. “Wick loves nothing more than to spin somebody up.”

“I can tell you,” Joaquin said, his low accent sexy as hell, “Wick also enjoys being spun up.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I thought for a moment, then leaned forward and whispered, “I can usually only handle one guy at a time, but if pissing off Woody doesn’t get him naked and under me in a reasonable amount of time, I might just give y’all a call.”

The table cracked up, and I hung around with them until the door slammed. I watched Woody’s ass as he took off across the parking lot. Looked like all this flirting was getting under his skin.

Score one for me.

I enjoyed my drinks with the three guys and discovered that Joaquin was the one who made the ointment that helped my shoulder. We exchanged numbers and agreed to keep in touch. They were a bit much for me, but I’d appreciated the banter.

After sobering up, I went home and tucked Stevie into bed for the evening—Rowdy had been showing her roping tricks all afternoon—then pulled out my phone and started texting Kessler.

Me: You know that poet I love? I got to meet him today.

Kess: That the asshole who convinced you to move away from me? gimlet eyes emoji

Me: Yes, and you’ll never guess who he is.

Kess: I dunno . . . that sexy rancher next door?

Me: shocked face emoji

Me: How the fuck did you guess that?

Kess: Oh, shit—I was right??

Kess: Damn. You are in so much trouble.

Me: *sigh* I know.

Me: I made him jealous by flirting with a throuple at the bar.

Kess: There be throuples out in them thar hills?

Me: Apparently. He got so mad he slammed the door on the way out.

Kess: So emotional . . .

Me: Eh, he’s a poet. What did you expect?

Kess: I have got to get out there and see this man for myself.

Me: I already called dibs.

Kess: Don’t mean I can’t enjoy the scenery.

Me: Then mi casa es su casa. Maybe when you get back from Omaha?

Kess: Maybe then.

That was just a few weeks out, but I couldn’t wait to see my friend again.