I push my black glasses up on my nose and swipe at a bead of sweat on my forehead. Why am I even wearing a stupid blazer in the middle of the hottest summer on record? My fingers toy with the top button, loosening it a little.

Rodeo sees me unbuttoning my jacket, and his eyes light up. He takes a step closer, and now his checkered shirt is brushing against my breasts, and I see his nose hairs. His smell wafts around me: spicy, male, kind of leathery—horsey.

I lean farther away, arching until I bump into the person next to me. Without glancing back, I mumble an apology and straighten myself on the stool.

Rodeo indicates my empty tumbler, his tone low and husky. “You want another drink? That whiskey you sucked down is long gone.”

Using my foot, I press on the lower part of the bar and scoot my stool away from him. I check my phone and put on a frown. “Actually, it’s getting late, and I need to leave—”

“Hey, bartender! My little filly here needs a drink,” he calls out and waves his hat around at the busy server behind the bar.

The petite bartender comes over to us. Her name tag says SELENA, and I’m envious of the confident sway of her hips in skinny jeans, the deep-red lipstick on her lips. Her dark hair is sheared close to her scalp in a pixie cut, her eyes defined with dark eyeliner. We’re like night and day, me in my faded makeup, mud-brown pencil skirt, and low-heeled pumps.

Selena focuses her eyes on me, dismissing Rodeo. “You sure you want another drink?” The dry tone says, Girl, why are you with him?

A long exhalation comes from my chest. All I need to do is get rid of him and just enjoy the burn of a good bourbon.

I give her a quick nod, keeping my eye on Rodeo.

“Same as before? Woodford on the rocks?”

“Please,” I say.

Selena turns around to reach up to the top shelf while Rodeo lets out a whistle under his breath, watching her voluptuous figure.

She turns back around, pours the drink, and slides it over to me, her face composed and blank. She has to have heard Rodeo, but you’d never know it. She’s cool. I want to be cool. Maybe then I might find the right kind of guy.

“Thank you,” I say and take a sip as Rodeo watches me with a smoldering look, then reaches out and toys with my necklace. “So this is obviously working between us. You’re hot. I’m hot. The electricity is sparking. I’m already picturing you riding me. Ever hear of reverse cowgirl?”

I pry his hands off my pearls and push at him as anger rises like a tidal wave, overriding my earlier politeness. When he’s at a safe-enough distance, I take a sip of my drink and slam it down on the bar. After digging around in my computer bag, I grab my wallet, pull out several twenties, and toss them down.

“You’re leaving already, honey?” There’s a plaintive whine to his voice.

I turn to face him, teeth gritting. “Yes, and I know what reverse cowgirl is.” I have to answer his question; it’s a thing. If you ask, I crave to respond with the truth. “And there is zero spark. My protons are not attracted to your electrons.”

“Protons? What—”

“Plus, it’s incredibly rude of you to suggest sexual acts when you’ve just met me—”

“Hot damn, you’ve got a temper. Gotta admit angry sex is my favorite. How’s about me and you getting out of here—”

“Keep dreaming—”

“And I might even let you stay the night, make you some pancakes in the morning, sprinkle some chocolate chips on them or some organic blueberries. You look like the granola type.”

I do like organic blueberries, but . . . “This was a drink-only meeting, and I told you that when I messaged you. And please, for the love of everything, stop calling me honey or filly, or I swear I’ll dump what’s left in this glass over your head.”

My chest rises at my outburst. I just threatened physical violence on a person. This isn’t like me. I never get angry. I let people run roughshod over me time and time again . . .

His gaze flares as I jerk to a standing position, stumbling a little in my heels as I ricochet off the person next to me. “Forgive me,” I murmur to the fellow, steadying myself by latching on to the bar like a lifeline. I throw a wary glance at my glass. I actually had one before Rodeo showed up, and considering I haven’t had dinner—yep, I’m buzzing.

“Giselle?” comes a deep voice, dark and sultry, the tone recognizable even over the loud music.

No, it can’t be.

My heart flips over, and my entire body flushes as I look past Rodeo to the tall man who’s standing a few feet away on the edge of the dance floor, a questioning look on his movie-star face.

My hands clench. I should have known I might see him. I just assumed he would still be working out or doing whatever professional athletes do early in the evening. My sister, Elena, mentioned he usually pops by on the weekends, but that’s about it.

Devon Walsh, superstar football player, arches a dark brow at me, the one with a silver bar at the edge. I run through my mental checklist. Voted Nashville’s Sexiest Man of the Year. All-Pro for three years straight. Best friends with my new brother-in-law, Jack. Owns the Razor. Wicked lips. Beautiful tattooed body. Hot.

“Is everything okay?” he asks as his gaze drifts over me, starting at the top of my half-down, half-up hair and moving all the way to my pumps. I squint, and even though it’s not possible in the dark club, it feels as though he’s put a spotlight on my form as he surveys every inch of me.

“Fine,” I call, tossing up a hand. “Couldn’t be better! Good to see you! Bye!”

Leave. I want no witnesses to this debacle.

“I see.” His discerning eyes flip to Rodeo, and that maddening eyebrow goes up again. “Are you on a date?”

My entire body rebels at the questioning, teasing tone in his voice, and I stiffen all over.

He thinks I’m with Rodeo.

I did meet him here, but . . .

“Yes, we are,” Rodeo calls and throws an arm around me as I wrestle unsteadily out of his grasp.

A small frown etches itself on Devon’s forehead as he sticks his hands into the pockets of his low-slung designer jeans. Maybe he sees I’m close to passing out from heatstroke or that I’m about to murder one of his patrons.

My insides feel like jelly, and it has little to do with the whiskey and more to do with Devon, although I’m not interested in him like that—just curious. Yes, he’s hotter than a Bunsen burner, but we’re friends—well, not real friends. Okay, whatever, I’m overthinking this, and my brain is not firing on all cylinders. We’re acquaintances, if you really want to split hairs, and when he looks at me, I’m firmly in the “you’re Elena’s sister, and she’s married to my best friend; therefore, I am friendly” category.

That doesn’t stop me from appreciating his chiseled, bladed jawline and the deep-green eyes that are framed by thick black lashes. At six-two or six-three (I itch to measure him), his body is toned to perfection by time in the gym, his shoulders muscled inside a tight black T-shirt, his chest tapering to a trim waist and long legs, with faded Converse on his feet. Rolex on one wrist, a black leather cuff on the other. One part civilized, the other side all bad boy and oh-so decadent.

His skin is a pretty tan color from the sun, a sharp contrast to my own milky paleness. His hair is mink brown and thick, mingled with royal-blue highlights, the top long and swept back off his face with lots of volume, the sides clipped close to his scalp. He uses more hair product than I do. When I first met him back in February, he wore a gelled faux hawk with purple tips, but he changes his hair more than any girl I know.