She used to get nervous a lot when they’d been together—mainly because of her father.
A flood of memories swamped him as he wove through the crowd, but he continued, never faltering. She’d been so caring, so sweet, so vulnerable, and all his. But, as it turned out, that had been an illusion.
He couldn’t fathom what she’d say to him, but he knew what he’d like to ask her.
How could she have walked away and not looked back? How could she have signed those papers and never spoken to him again? Not a call, not a text, not an e-mail—nothing. How could she act that way and sit there waiting for him like they were old friends?
Would he stop? The silent question hung in the air while Libby watched him approach, her gaze riveted in his direction like a nail caught in a magnetic field.
Her foot was shaking like it was ready for takeoff. She felt like running. She knew she couldn’t. Not this time.
“Imagine finding you at the Cattleman’s Club after all these years.”
That low, sexy male voice could still vibrate her heart. Libby struggled to hide any reaction as she looked up into the familiar stone-chiseled face and stormy gray eyes shadowed by a black Stetson.
“Congratulations,” she managed to get out as Chance, dressed in a white shirt and black jeans, pulled out the empty chair across from her and filled it without waiting for an invitation. “You looked great out there today,” she added, reaching for the easy compliment and hoping against hope they could keep it friendly.
Her pulse picked up, perspiration dampened her neck, and her heart actually fluttered at the sight of him sitting across from her. What had she gotten herself into?
“Didn’t think you followed rodeo, Libby. Things must have changed.” His rugged features may have been schooled into a bland expression, but there was a challenge in his voice.
“People do change, Chance.” Her being here, facing him, should have been proof of that.
“Do they?”
He angled his body toward her, bringing along a musky whiff of aftershave. The same aftershave she’d bought years ago to remind her of him. She tried not to breathe too deep lest the scent launch her traitorous heart into full-out palpitations.
“You’ve changed, Chance. You’re a million-dollar cowboy now.” She’d never have imagined it, though she should have. Chance had more grit and determination than anyone she knew. He’d had to.
“So you think money changes a man?” His gaze traveled down her silky pink camisole, stopping at the waistband of her denim jeans and causing a little shimmer to go through her. How could that still be after so much time?
“Question is, whether the change would be for good or bad,” he added, meeting her eyes again.
She’d wondered many times if and how success had changed him. She’d prayed it hadn’t, but what she’d read about him over the last few years hadn’t filled her with much hope. Partying, women, and lots of rodeo wins.
A waitress clad in a glittery white top and black tap pants was aiming for their table.
“Beer or something harder?” Chance drawled, leaning so close she could feel his warm breath laced with a faint scent of liquor.
“Beer,” she said, though she could have used something stronger. But she’d need her wits about her tonight. Revisiting old wounds would take all the courage she could summon, but liquid courage would only complicate an already difficult situation. She’d waited a long time for him to come back to Cheyenne. And for the courage to see him again.
He focused on the flirty waitress who bent needlessly low to hear his order. Libby grabbed the moment to study him.
Chance’s face had lost any trace of boyishness. He looked all man, from the hard line of his jaw to the fullness of his lips to the high cheekbones that spoke of some native heritage. The sleeves of his pearl-button shirt were rolled up, revealing tanned forearms, while his jeans molded to the lines and angles of his frame. His body was still lean—but solid, carved from muscle rather than bone.
And looking at him was making her body thrum.
As soon as the waitress sashayed away, his attention switched to her, those gray eyes intense. He didn’t speak though, just stared. Waiting. She shifted in her chair and wrapped one leg around the other in a donut knot to keep that shaking foot in line. The din of voices and music filled the room. As she recalled, he could have a saint’s patience when it suited and a sinner’s impulsiveness when it didn’t. Was he still angry after all these years? Or was that another emotion she’d glimpsed in his eyes before his expression hardened?