She fit him perfectly, even now that she was rounder, fuller, more of a woman than a girl. Her sleek, shoulder-length blonde hair smelled of the rose scent he’d forever associate with Libby. He slid his hand down her silky camisole, enjoying the feel of her in his arms. He couldn’t help wonder what it would be like to kiss her again and feel her response, taste her sweetness. In tight jeans and a sexy top, she looked like a fantasy girl. His fantasy girl.
“You did get the divorce decree, right? I mean, considering what you said to JT.”
Reality was a bitch.
Until the moment he’d opened the envelope, he’d held hope of getting her back. He gone to work on the rodeo circuit like a crazy man, trying to earn enough money to come back and throw it in old man Brennan’s face and reclaim his wife. Because he knew money was the only hope he had of making his case—to Brennan and to Libby. “You mean from that judge your daddy bribed? How you could have signed those papers, Libby—”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“You chose to walk away. From me. From us.” That was the truth of it. If only she would admit that she had a choice. And she didn’t choose him. Maybe that would knock some sense into his heart.
Instead, she buried her face in his shoulder. He felt the damp warmth of her mouth through his shirt. A mouth just a second ago he’d imagined kissing, before the sting of betrayal had become fresh in his mind, jabbing him back to reality.
“It was the only thing that made sense. He would have made both of us miserable. You’d been through so much already.”
“Yeah. What’s one more person walking out of my life going to do to me, right? Is that what you figured?”
“You know it wasn’t, Chance.”
“Seems where you’re concerned, Libby, I didn’t know anything.”
He’d been a guy from the wrong side of the tracks making it with the town princess. Only she’d meant so much more to him. Her faith in him was what had pulled him back from the brink of failure and made him want to try. And then, without a backward glance, she’d walked away as if he had never mattered.
He couldn’t do it. Hold her in his arms. Feel her body next to his. Imagine what could have been, knowing what was. He stepped back, dropped his arms. She stumbled a step before righting herself. He needed to say good-bye and get the hell out of there.
“Libby—”
“We need to talk,” she exclaimed over the din. “Somewhere private.”
He swallowed hard past the lump that had lodged in his throat. They did need to talk. But he doubted she’d like what he had to say. Telling her, finally, what he really thought of her might just be the best thing. Then he could stop thinking about her, stop wondering what if. Stop hurting. It had been five years—and he still hadn’t been able to move on. “Outside.”
She started toward the door. He followed. Their pretty waitress was just setting down the drinks at the table. As he passed, he pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and slapped it in her hand.
“This is for the drinks,” he said and grabbed the shot glass resting on the table. The Lagavulin whiskey he’d ordered slid smoothly down his throat. He’d need it tonight.
Two long steps brought him right behind Libby, who hadn’t broken stride. The crowd parted to let them through. He couldn’t miss the lingering male glances that followed her. No doubt she had some boyfriend waiting in the wings. Some suit from one of those eastern schools she’d attended. Because that would please her father.
As she reached the exit, he swung out his arm and pushed open the door, nearly knocking aside the couple entering. He begged their pardon before stepping out behind her. The summer night air felt warm after the air-conditioning. She moved into the golden glow of two lamps guarding the club’s doorway. The light shimmered around her like a backlight to an angelic statue. His head said he wasn’t ready to do this, but the pounding in his chest said he had to.
Chapter 2
Libby stepped between two pickups parked out front and wondered how she could say what she had to say. She’d never been comfortable with confrontation, though Chance seemed born to confront. And maybe that had been the attraction back then. Chance had been the fighter—she had been the one who wanted someone to fight for her.
Clear of the back fender and facing an ever expanding sea of vehicles, more pouring into the lot with each step, she stopped and looked back over her shoulder.
“Where do you want to do this?” she asked. Her nerves were jumping at the prospect, but she was a big girl now, she reminded herself. She wasn’t going to duck and run. Hadn’t she’d come to clear the air and gain his agreement?
“My truck.”