Change Rein - Anne Jolin Page 0,11

table, a welcome interruption to the mental chastising rattling around inside my skull. I withstand the urge to lunge for it, instead picking it up and resuming my pacing.

“Tucker,” I answer.

“Good evening, sir. The call you’ve been waiting for came in a few minutes ago,” Lydia, my assistant, informs me.

As I pinch the bridge of my nose, anxiety at the thought of this having not worked swarms me. Truthfully, I never expected the man would have to discuss it with his children.

“And?” I snap.

“Larry Daniels has accepted your offer.”

I run my hand up to the top of my head, fisting it into my hair. Thank fucking Christ.

“Wonderful. Thank you, Lydia.” Calmness makes its way back into my tone. “Please have everything scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. You can coordinate with Charlotte as she’ll need to be in the loop for transport.”

“Of course. Will that be all?”

Leaning my back against the wall, I cradle the phone between my shoulder and ear, unbuttoning the remainder of my shirt. “That will be all. Sorry to keep you so late on a Sunday.”

“Perfectly fine, sir. Goodnight.”

I vaguely hear the line go dead before tossing the phone back onto the bed. There’s an energy building inside me that, no matter what I do, I can’t seem to burn off.

I’m nervous.

That’s another feeling I’ll admit I’m not used to, and the anxiety surrounding it is increasing.

I need a drink.

After unbuttoning my slacks, I let them pool on the floor, knowing full well I’ll stick out like a dirty shirt dressed like that in this town.

After changing into a pair of Wranglers and a black t-shirt, I sit on the bed again to pull my cowboy boots on. Satisfied I can find a place to soothe my aching chest within walking distance, I forgo car keys and slide my wallet and my room key into the back pocket of my jeans.

When I reach the lobby, I nod towards the eager hostess, who’s beaming at me.

“How is your room, Mr. Tucker?”

“Lovely, ma’am. Thank you.”

Her eyes widen as I make my way over to her desk, and I withhold the urge to shake my head at her. “Manners make a gentleman,” my mother often reminded us children.

“Is there anywhere nearby to get a drink?” I ask, politely removing any flirtatious vibe from my tone. Although, these days, most women can twist even simple kindness into something it’s not.

The men who make them feel that desperate for affection are hardly men in my opinion. Weren’t raised by fathers like mine, I suppose.

“Oh yes,” she sighs, her voice breathy. “The Sundance is just about a kilometer up the road—only bar in town. Can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.” I tip my hat towards her before making my way to the exit.

“Mr. Tucker?” she calls out behind me.

Stopping, I look over my shoulder, nodding for her to continue.

“I’m off in just a few minutes if you need a date,” she purrs, suggestively propping her breasts on top of the counter.

“Thank you for the offer, ma’am.” I smile as the thoughts form on my tongue. “I’ve already got a date though. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

The last thing I see before stepping out into the warm August air is the furrowing of her brow.

Hell, I don’t blame her. The whole thing is confusing me too.

The girl is right, though—just shy of a kilometer up the main drag, the familiar neon lights glow bright. It’s nine-thirty when I finally put a boot down on the beat-up hardwood floor. Heaven only knows what glass and brawls the grain in that wood has seen.

The bar is loud—exceptionally loud for a Sunday night in a small town, I figure. Nonetheless, my ears appreciate the twang and steel guitar coming through the speakers. My tense shoulders relax with the music.

Resting my forearms on the bar, I lean forward and wait as a petite redhead makes her way towards me.

“What can I get you, sugar?” she asks.

Lifting two fingers, I nod towards the bar behind her. “Bourbon, please.”

She pours the amber liquid into a short glass before passing it over the counter. “That’ll be twelve.”

After passing her a twenty from my wallet, I shake my head as the pretty, young thing tries to give me change. Just as she’s about to speak, the knucklehead wobbling on his stool beside me pipes up.

“R-e-e-d,” he slurs. “One more, baby.”

I don’t know how much he’s had, but the woman before me hardly seems like she fits such a masculine name.

“You’ve long since been cut