she’s not sharing.” Olivia follows my eyes down the bar, looking at Willow and seeming more like a big sister than the barely-adult she appears to be.
“What makes you say that?”
Olivia looks at me like I’m stupider than the goat on our farm that keeps getting stuck in the fence when she tries to escape.
“A girl doesn’t up and leave her life for no good reason. So be easy with her. She’s not them.” She looks pointedly at table two, the margarita girls who are dressed up in miniskirts, fancy boots with fringe, and plunging necklines.
“That’s why I’m sitting here and not there.”
Olivia backhands my shoulder, pleased. “Good answer, Bobby.”
Willow reappears, setting down three margaritas for Olivia, but before I can say a word, she’s off again. Back to ignoring me and doing her work.
I get it, she’s busy. And I can wait. I’ve got nowhere better to be than right where she is, gleaning every tidbit of intel I can about this woman who has captured my attention more than anyone else ever has. And she’s barely said a word to me. There’s just something about her that is drawing me in.
Magical threads pull me into you, and I swirl into your orbit, lost to anyone but you.
Chapter 4
Willow
His eyes, dark as night and heavy with intention, follow me. I can feel them, the heat singeing me as I work.
A couple of women have approached Bobby while he’s sitting at my bar, but both walked away after a few minutes of ignored conversation. My insides buzz a little because not only did he not talk to the women, he didn’t even look at them. Oh, no, those eyes stayed locked on me the whole time.
At first, I’d discreetly checked to make sure I hadn’t had a nip slip or raccoon eyes, something that would explain the stare treatment, but the thumbs-up Olivia shot me told me loud and clear that Bobby’s attention wasn’t to gawk at the outsider. But rather that he’s interested . . . in me.
That seems ridiculously unlikely, though.
He’s a star, having held the entire room in his hand as he created a world of his own, inviting us into it in incremental bits with each song.
I’ve never heard anything like him before, that deep and sultry voice making every emotion ring through my whole body, especially down low in my belly.
I’ve never seen anything like him before, either, like he was supposed to be a pretty Hollywood boy but was born too rough and dark for anything prissy like that. He’s walking, talking, singing . . . sin.
Currently, he’s also the last fifteen pictures on the camera gallery in my phone, not that I’ll show them to anyone or post them anywhere. Nope, those Bobby Tannen stage shots are all for me.
As much as I hate to admit it, I can’t help but look at him too, though I try to keep it to quick side glances. He’s broad-shouldered in the denim shirt he’s wearing with the sleeves rolled up to show his ropey forearms. I can honestly say I have never noticed a guy’s forearms until right this moment, but apparently, forearm porn is a very real thing. Who knew? Not me, for sure. He’s taken his cowboy hat off, setting it on the bar beside him, and his dark hair flips up at the ends in the back. His full lips are surrounded by a five o’clock shadow, and every once in a while, his fingers dance on the bar as though he’s playing a song. I wonder if it’s a habit and what song he’s hearing in his mind right now.
He stays there for over an hour, watching and waiting like a hunter, which must make me his prey. Somewhere around the beginning of the second hour, I decide this isn’t a prank and eventually stop feeling like I’m going to trip over my own feet or drop a glass and make a fool of myself. Instead, his intense silence turns into some weird form of foreplay. He nurses the single glass of whiskey, shoots me a cocky half-smirk that promises filthy things when he catches me looking back at him, and basically manages to make it seem like we’re the only two people in the room.
I swear I can feel his gaze along my skin, drinking me in and driving me wild. And that’s from several seats away as I do my best to keep up with the incoming orders since