by Emma Roman
Camryn Rhys
1
Springfield, Colorado
“And the winner of the douche Olympics is…” Sylvie Proulx said to herself, stirring the drink that Luther had placed on the bar in front of her. She hoisted the top of her strapless black dress and slumped her shoulders.
My Valentine’s date. Gold medal.
“What was that?” Luther asked, leaning in. The upbeat country music was a strange contrast to all the red hearts and assorted Valentine’s bullshit. But when the old V-day landed on Tuesday Ladies Night, her uncle Caleb wasn’t about to skip a chance to draw in his biggest crowd of the year.
Even without smoking, there was a low haze in the half-dark. On one side of the undivided room, a long bar ran the length of the building, and the rest of the Blue Moon Café was half honky-tonk, half-sit-down restaurant. The dance floor was packed with cowboy hats and boots scootin’ to boogie.
Sylvie took a long drink and shook her head. “Nevermind, dude.”
The big Boston wolf waited, drumming his fingers on the wood and looking generally annoyed. “You’re gonna have to tell me.”
“Don’t, Luther. Just…” She stirred at the drink. “Don’t give me the line about how my uncle will have your hide and the pack will go after him and blah-blah-blah.”
“Well, he will. And we will.”
“I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.”
He raised a dark brow. “Now there’s a battle to fight?”
“Oh, shut up.” She threw the straw at him and he still didn’t back off. It was hard not to let his protectiveness matter to her, but underneath, she was happy to have the pack accept her, and she had no doubt that Caleb would actually send her cousins after her craptastic date if he’d actually done anything wrong.
“The last I heard, it was douche Olympics.”
“Stupid wolf hearing.” Sylvie sipped at the seven-and-seven. “Don’t say anything to Caleb, though. Please. He knows this one.”
“This one?” Luther walked away from her to serve another customer, but even if she whispered, there would be a good chance his wolf ears could still hear her.
Sylvie didn’t want to talk about the douche medalist. Or the long line of silvers and bronzes behind him. Valentine’s Day was shitty first-date material to begin with, but she should’ve known when he’d walked in that the night would disappoint.
A little too hipster, a little too smartass, downed his alcohol too fast, and touched her before she was ready. Even the I’m-looking-long-term talk had come a little too quick to be genuine.
“This one?” Luther repeated, coming back to lean on the bar in front of her. The big East Coaster wasn’t her type—and he was mated anyway—but something about his big-brother thing made her feel a little warm inside.
Or it could have been the seven-and-seven.
Sylvie pushed at the glass. “Can I have some water?”
“Good girl,” he said, smacking down a pint glass and filling it from the well. “I know douchepants was a pass, but it’s still worth trying, right?”
Sylvie shrugged. “I’m gonna head home, anyway. I need to get the alcohol out of my system so I can get to sleep.”
“Now, really.” He leaned over the bar, his dark features narrowing. “Do I need to crack a head?”
“No,” she said into the glass, and she almost meant it. “He was just a douche. Run of the mill.”
“And your uncle knows him?”
“Well, he used to be on the circuit.” Heat rose up her throat. It had been a long time since she’d dated a real cowboy—if the dimestore version still counted, with this one. His jeans and boots hadn’t seen dirt since they came out of the box. He clearly wasn’t on the circuit anymore. He even walked like a hipster.
“The circuit?”
Sylvie downed the rest of the water. “Rodeo.”
Luther hadn’t been around long enough to know the whole history of the Gallagher family, so she didn’t give him the snarky answer that waited on her lips. What’s my problem tonight?
She had been a little bitchy to the hipster cowboy. To be fair to him, he’d hung in as long as he could. But her tongue had been whip-cracking all night.
“Caleb’s not much of a cowboy,” Luther said, filling her glass again.
“No, he’s not.” Sylvie laughed into her water, trying to imagine her Patagonia uncle in a cowboy hat. “But Aunt Gretchen is pretty much rodeo royalty. She’s my side of the family—so that’s what I grew up with.”
“Hmmm.” Luther looked around the restaurant with unfocused eyes. For someone from the East Coast, who probably grew up in the dead center of a hundred-mile city, he didn’t seem too out of place in their small Colorado town. The tattoos and beefcake look helped. But he clearly didn’t compute the idea of cowboy Caleb any easier than Sylvie did.
“You’ll learn,” she said. The song broke and the group on the dance floor started clapping and whooping. “Both Maggie’s brothers used to rodeo. And they knew Lance pretty well. So even if—”
“Lance?” Luther spluttered with clear laughter in his tone. “Well, that’s the problem right there. That’s a douche name.”
A sudden swath of heat slid across Sylvie’s shoulders. Every molecule of her body went on alert and her spine went rod-straight. Only one thing could make her body react like this.
She didn’t want to turn around. She knew what she’d find if she did.
Paul Banfield.
Six feet and change of broad-shouldered, dark-eyed, sex-on-a-stick hotness. She didn’t need to look to see the casual swipe of dimples on his half-smile, or that shock of brown hair she wanted to run her fingers through.
She knew him by heart.
“What’s wrong?” Luther said, leaning over the bar, concern arching his features.
Sylvie released the breath that had caught in her throat when she felt the magick crawl over her skin. She hadn’t felt that magick in so long—she’d been avoiding Paul for two years.
“Nothing. I think the alcohol just hit me.” She gave him a tired smile and kept her back to the restaurant, pulling her dark hair from behind her ear.
The last thing she needed was Paul coming over to the bar and recognizing her. The magick was bad enough already, just with him across the room. She couldn’t take it.
“You want me to bring you some bread or something?” Luther thumbed back toward the kitchen.
“No.” Sylvie snatched his other hand before he left. “Please just talk to me for another minute so I can sober up and then I’ll go home.”
His concern deepened. “If you’re that drunk, you shouldn’t be driving. Caleb will physically remove my head from my body if I let you out of here with alcohol in your system.”
“I’m really not drunk, I—”
“Just hang on a sec.” Luther pulled his hand away and went back toward the kitchen entrance. “Let me get you some of the fresh-baked bread. It’ll soak up some of the alcohol.”
Sylvie clenched her hand into a fist, but she couldn’t turn to call out for him. If Paul heard her voice or saw her face, she wouldn’t be able to hide from him. Thank God he didn’t have wolf hearing.
The next song ended and another round of clapping began. She couldn’t move at all, just in case she drew attention to herself. If she’d been sitting with Lance when Paul came through the door, she probably would have choked on her seven-and-seven. So she could at least be thankful for small favors.
At the bar, she could be innocuous enough, she wouldn’t draw his attention. And hopefully the hostess would seat him way in the back, by the window, and she could…
Wait.
Paul was at the Blue Moon. On Valentine’s Day.
Shit.
He was on a date.
An ache built behind her sternum until she thought it would choke her. Sylvie tried to swallow some water, but it caught and she coughed when it went down the wrong way.
Luther walked in with a plate of the Blue Moon�
�s famous cheddar rolls and a big slab of herbed butter in a black ramekin. Sylvie covered her mouth and tried to smile, but the water burned her throat.
Paul was here on a Valentine’s date.
Emotion rolled up her throat, burning its way up to her eyes, and she could feel the tears beginning to form. Re-hashing Uncle Caleb’s warning wouldn’t do her any good. Stay away from Paul was less powerful when she thought about him going home with another girl. No matter what the reasons.
Luther watched her butter a roll, like he was waiting for her response. She appreciated the fact that he cared about her not driving home drunk. But part of her wished he would stop staring. Every movement behind her made her jump and she couldn’t afford for the nosy wolf to start asking questions.
The feel of the magick moved, like a rope, from her shoulders to her stomach, and she knew he was getting closer.
Please don’t see me. Please.
She leaned forward and took a bigger bite of the bread, choking on the dry, garlicky mouthful. Luther lurched toward her, but she put her hand up, chewing at the food and swigging water.
As the pull of the magick slowly loosened, Sylvie’s breathing returned to normal. She chewed and swallowed the bite, and Luther relaxed.
“Shit, woman. Be careful,” he said, his voice on the edge of a hiss.
“I’m…” Sylvie took a breath and gulped down some water. “I’m fine.”
The magick was almost gone. Paul had to be across the room. Disaster averted.
She couldn’t let herself think about him with another woman, or see him sitting across the table from someone, or stomach the look he would give her when their eyes met. None of it.
“Fuck Valentine’s Day,” she said, shoving the rest of the bread in her mouth and biting back tears. “Fuck men. And fuck my life.”
“Whoah.” Luther backed up. “Language.”
“Whatever.” She fumbled in her purse for some cash and threw it on the bar. Her uncle never let her pay for anything, but she left it anyway. “I’m going home.”
“Let me get someone to drive you,” Luther said, hurrying around the bar.
“I’m fine.” She put up the same defensive hand and he stopped. “Tell Maggie I said hi.”
“Don’t be a stranger, now.” His voice rang out a little too loud and Sylvia cringed. Thankfully, the music was still loud enough, there was a good chance it hadn’t carried all the way across the room.
To wherever Paul was.
She hurried toward the door, trying to keep her eyes from traveling across the faces, looking for his. But it was hard to ignore the pull of the magick, permeating the air like electricity before a lightning strike.
Centered around a table by the window where her dark-eyed ex-lover sat, his head behind a menu, oblivious to her exit. If she could just get away before he looked up…
2
Paul Banfield needed red meat. A good steak. He hadn’t been this hungry in years. But his stomach was so empty, it made him itchy.
“Are the salads good here?” his date asked.
And against his better judgment, he was turned on. By a damn salad order. But no, the hunger wasn’t for Roxy. Nice as she was—pretty as she was—he had been turned on before they even sat down.
Doesn’t take much these days.
The old Paul would have skipped dinner and pinned Roxy up against the wall when he’d picked her up. The old Paul tried to scratch the itch whenever he felt it. But he was trying something new since the debacle with Charity, and his brother intervening in his love life.
The new Paul had picked up his respectable blind date and taken her to a respectable restaurant and tried to find something on the menu that would calm the hunger inside. Hunger that, if he was honest, wasn’t for food. But it wasn’t for Roxy, either.
“I guess not,” she said with a lift of her brows and one tight corner to her mouth.
“Sorry. I’m just—”
“No, it’s fine.” Roxy waved him off. “I’ve never eaten here before.”
“I used to eat here all the time. And I’ve never had a bad meal here, if that helps.” He tried to lean forward and be engaged, but the gnawing, electric pulse in his stomach wouldn’t quit. And it was getting worse.
A waiter scooted by them with a big brown tray over his head. The low din of conversation in the room should have comforted him. No one was listening to their pathetic lack of interest in each other.
The man who’d seated them returned with a black plastic folder in his hand, eyes locked on Roxy. And why not? She looked great. Just...
I’m distracted. I need to eat something.
The host opened his mouth and a loud, clanking crash stopped whatever he’d been about to say. Paul looked around the room for the source of the noise, and for a split second… just a second…
Sylvie?
The face had been hers. The fine, china doll features. The high set of her shoulders. But her hair was so different. Long, dark, loose. Not blonde.
Her eyes lasered on to his and the hunger fanned into desire again.
It is Sylvie.
No mistaking that mirrored longing. The same one he felt, himself, when their eyes met. She backed away from the poor waiter, apologizing all over the empty plates, but her eyes didn’t leave his.
He was up and out of his chair before he realized it, making an excuse to Roxy, leaving the cloth napkin on the table…following Sylvie.
Paul wove his way through the tables, leaving respectability behind and following Sylvie down the hallway, to the exit. The blast of cold air struck him hard and took away his breath. His coat was hanging up somewhere, but he would brave the cold. He couldn’t let Sylvie get away.
She had on this impossibly sexy strapless black dress that sparkled under each light for one bright second. And heels. He’d never seen her in heels.
The hunger edged up, each inch he got closer to her. Like he’d smelled her or felt her or some weird thing his mother would have blamed on Fate.
Like the hunger was for Sylvie.
Which was ridiculous.
She lifted her hand and the boomp-booomp of a car unlocking overtook the crunch of her heels in the half-inch of powdery snow.
He took a deep breath and called out, “Sylvie. Stop.”
The muscles in her shoulders tensed, but she kept moving, picking up speed toward her vehicle. She didn’t turn, didn’t stop, didn’t even look back.
She knew it was me, too.
And she was practically running to get away. A twinge of frustration bubbled up in him and he called her name again. Still, no response.
“Sylvie, dammit. Stop!” he yelled, only two car-lengths away from her.
She opened the door to a small black car, sidled up to the curb on the edge of the dark road. But Paul grabbed her wrist just as she tried to slip down into the driver’s seat.
“Didn’t you hear me calling you?” He pulled her up and she backed against the car, her shoulders shaking.
The air between them seemed to spark and he found himself breathing in tandem with her. Great, long gulps of air, full of the chemistry that had always been so palpable.
Her dark eyes were round and caked with make-up, some of it running down her cheeks. Crying. Sylvie was crying.
Instinctively, he reached for her face and slid his thumb across her cheek smudging the make-up. Her lips parted, and her breasts rose, giving him a peek of cleavage.
His blood sprinted through his veins, rushing into his ears and stopping him from thinking. Blood pulsed everywhere, and memories thrummed behind it.
“Why didn’t you stop?” he asked, seeing a split second of the blonde, bobbed, sexy as damn hell Sylvie in the echo of the somber, dark girl in front of him.
“Paul, please.” She couldn’t back up any more, but she stepped back down onto the street, plastering herself against the car.
“I just wanted to—”
“Please, please” she chanted, a pleading whisper that froze
him in place.
He lowered his hand, but the heat of her cheek remained on his fingertips. He wanted to touch her again. Never to stop touching her. That hadn’t changed.
“We can’t even say hello?”
“I asked you, when we broke up…” The words seemed wrenched from her, and he took a step back.
“I remember.” He’d never forgotten those words. I need to never speak to you again wasn’t something a guy forgot. Dividing up the town like spoils from a war wasn’t something a guy forgot.
But she didn’t get in the car. She just stood on the curb, her chest heaving, shoulders rising, tears falling. None of it made sense.
If she hated him so much… If she needed to get away so bad… why was she crying? Why didn’t she race off in her car? Why could he see her hard nipples poking against the fabric of her dress?
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I tried to get out without you noticing.”
He chewed on his lip, trying to stuff the junk that was starting to creep back up. After two years, after countless girls in and out of his bed to numb the pain that wouldn’t quit, he’d had enough.
“You think I wouldn’t notice you?” He moved toward her and she froze against the car. She couldn’t get away from him. “Damn, girl, you light up a room.”
Tears soaked her cheeks and he pulled his hand through his hair, trying to keep himself from reaching for her, from touching her, from feeling the weight of her against him one more time.
She said no. He didn’t understand it. Didn’t like it. But he’d promised himself he wouldn’t chase her.
Only… he had chased her. Right through the door and out into the night. If he could’ve, he would keep chasing until he caught her.
***
Sylvie was shaking, so afraid he would touch her again, she almost couldn’t breathe. Every move he made, she flinched, her insides tight as an over-cranked guitar string.
“Please, Paul.” Sylvie shook her head, keeping her gaze from his. “You’re here with someone else. Go back in and eat your steak. Let me go home.”
He waved a hand back at the Blue Moon. “It was a blind date.”
