My ankle burns enough to keep tears stinging behind my eyes with every step, but I keep moving anyway, because that’s what you do when you have no other option.

As I serve drinks, the only thing keeping my fake smile in place is the amount of tips I’m pulling in. Even though we split them, I’m going to make more tonight off tips alone than I’ve ever paid myself in a week at the Fishbowl.

Maybe I should have done this a long time ago.

Thankfully, I don’t have time to question my misplaced loyalty because a flurry of drink orders is hurled across the bar by customers.

When I slide two plastic cups under the taps, a guy leans forward and yells, “Are you the chick who fucked Boone Thrasher? Because you look just like the picture I saw online. You’re hot. I can totally see why he’d nail you.”

I’d been getting some intense looks for the last couple of hours, but I assumed they were in appreciation of my decent rack in this tight tank top.

Please tell me I wasn’t wrong.

“Sorry. Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He holds out his phone, and on the front page of a massive gossip blog is the picture that little punk-ass Vandy kid snapped last night.

The one that Boone was supposed to take care of.

I can only guess that my expression is one of shock and horror, which the guy takes for an affirmative reply.

“Totally thought so. When you get sick of him, there are plenty of us who’ll get in line for a shot at you next. He has killer taste.”

“Hey, asshole, that’s my girlfriend you’re talking to!” Law shouts, slurring his words.

I squeeze my eyes shut with an are you kidding me sigh, and flip the taps before removing the full plastic cups from beneath. As much as I want to toss them in his face, I go with my canned reply because I need this job.

“Here are your beers, sir. Enjoy your night at the White Horse.”

I step away from the bar as Law talks shit to the guy, which has to be an alcohol-fueled development, because whenever some guy would make a comment to me before, he never got upset.

Finally, I lose my grip on my temper and smack a palm on the bar, getting the attention of both men. “Listen up.” I point at Law. “Ex-girlfriend, and you don’t need to defend my honor. I’m all set.” I swing my finger to point at the other guy. “I’ll serve you drinks until you run out of money or the laws of the state of Tennessee tell me to stop, but other than that, you aren’t getting shit from me. Both of you, step out of the way so I can serve more customers.”

The slow clap coming from just behind Law catches my attention, right before the source starts speaking.

“Good to know I’m not the only one who gets the sharp side of your tongue, sugar.”

The deep voice, rough and husky, has both men I just bitched out spinning around.

“Whoa. Holy shit. You’re Boone Thrasher.”

Boone’s blue eyes pierce the punk. “And you’re a piece of shit. Don’t talk to my girl again if you want to walk out of here.”

His girl? Uh, say what now?

Boone’s gaze swings to Law, dealing with them one at a time like I just did. “Don’t know who you think you are, but it doesn’t matter to me.”

Finally, Boone meets my eyes. Lowering his voice, he says, “What are you doing here?”

“Working! Can we please talk about whatever’s on your mind later, superstar, because I’m a little busy.”

I snag two more plastic cups and shove them under the taps. For a minute, I think Boone is going to tell me no, we’re going to talk right now, but he doesn’t.

“Fine. I know how I can pass a few hours.”

He glances toward the stage where the house band is taking a break after their first set.

Hope comes toward me, taking in Boone and Law. “Oh hell, isn’t this a fun little reunion?”

“You Hope?” Boone asks, and she nods. “Mind if I borrow your stage for a while?”

I glance at her as her face lights up.

“Hell no, I don’t mind. We broke our record the night you and Frisco crashed last week. Bring it on, man.”

Boone nods. “Thanks. I gotta wait until Rip here finishes her shift, so I might as well make it fun.”

Hope steals one of the beers I’m pouring and hands it across the bar to Boone. “On the house. Go tear it up. I’ll get security for you and have them call in a bigger crew.”

Boone’s gaze shifts back to me. “I like your friend.”

Without another word, Boone turns and makes his way through the crowd until he hits the stage. He jumps up on it, beer in one hand as he grabs the microphone with the other. He takes a swig and waits for the house music to stop before he speaks into it.

“How y’all doin’ tonight?”

The crowd on the floor turns in unison to stare at Boone before erupting into screams and cheers.

“I had so much fun here the other night, I thought I’d come back and do it again.”

Someone starts the chant, and suddenly the bar is filled with people yelling, “Boone! Boone! Boone!”

Hope turns to me, and over the din, she says, “He is hot for you. Ride that train for all it’s worth, baby girl.”

* * *

An hour later, my ankle is swollen to the size of a grapefruit, and I can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt like hell. I’m limping toward my next customer when Brian drops a hand on my shoulder.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

“Rolled my ankle on the stairs.”

His eyes widen. “When you got the keg? And you’ve been walking on it this whole time without saying a damn thing?”

“It’s my first night. I wasn’t about to complain when I need this job.”

Brian shakes his head like I just told him I slammed my hand in a door on purpose. “You’re an idiot. What good will you be tomorrow if you don’t take care of it?”

“I don’t have a shift until Wednesday. Hope is working me into the schedule, so I need the money from tonight to . . . well, I need it.”

“I get it. But you need to get off that ankle. I’ll get Hope.”

He strides away, says something to Hope, and my friend hustles toward me.

“You little asshole, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Really? You know why.”

“Fine, but you’re done. I’ll grab my keys and you can take my truck home. I’ll get a ride with someone else. I’ll be back in two minutes.” She rushes away toward the employee break room and her locker, and I keep serving drinks.

When Hope returns, she hands me her keys. “Are you gonna be okay driving and walking on that?”

It’s my left ankle, so as long as I don’t have to drive a manual transmission like my own freaking car, I’ll be fine.

“I’m good.”

“We’ll split all of tonight’s tips at close, and I’ll bring yours home.”

“Give me a smaller share. I’m leaving early.”

“Shut up.”

“Love you.”

“Love you more. Go get your shit and get out of here.”

I duck into the break room and when I come out, I notice one major difference—Boone’s voice is no longer carrying through the bar. Instead, another top country hit is coming through the speakers.

Hope is already hard at work, so I limp toward the back door.

More accurately, I start to limp toward the back door.

“What the fuck?” Boone’s voice booms from behind me. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Glancing back toward the bar, I see him with a bottle of water in one hand, and security on either side of him.

The last thing I need is another public scene at my brand-new job.

“Nothing. I’m heading out.” I take another step, attempting not to limp, but a hiss of pain escapes my lips.

Boone is on me faster than I can silence it.

“What happened, sugar? And don’t lie to me.”

I bite my lip, debating for a hot second whether to tell him the truth.

“Ripley . . .”

When he says my name with an edge to it, I decide I’ll get out of here quicker if I just tell him.

“I fell down the stairs and rolled my ankle right before you got here. It’s swelling up, so I’m going back to Hope’s to put some ice on it.”

Boone’s expression morphs from one of concern to anger in the flash of a second. “You fell down the fucking stairs and you’ve been working for over a goddamned hour on a sprained ankle? Behind a bar?”

My jaw clenched, I reply. “I’m trying to leave now, so if you’ll—”

“You need to go to a hospital and make sure it ain’t broken. Fell down the stairs. Jesus Christ, woman.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him not freaking happening, because I don’t have health insurance, but instead I wave him off.

“I’ll be fine at Hope’s. I just need to put some ice on it.”

Boone’s eyes meet mine, his expression somber yet frustrated. “Let me help you.”

If there’s one trait I got from Pop, it’s my stubbornness. “I’m fine. I’m going now.” I step around Boone but he spins, bends down, and drops his shoulder to my stomach and lifts me up.

“What—”

“The only place you’re going is with me.”

One of the security guys chuckles as Boone strides out of the bar with me over his shoulder, ignoring my protests to put me down.

“Hey, asshole. She said put her down.”

I recognize Law’s voice, but Boone doesn’t slow.

Security keeps everyone back, and we clear the door. From my position over his shoulder, I can’t see a thing, but once we’re outside, I can hear yelling.

My name. His name. Questions.

Shit. It’s the press. They found him, and now pictures of me dangling over his shoulder like some barbarian conqueror’s prize will be all over the internet. Freaking fabulous.

I renew my struggles. “Put me down! They’re going to get pic—”

Boone lowers me to the ground, cutting off my demand as he wraps an arm around me. “Hold on to me for balance. Try not to put any weight on that ankle.”

How can he sound so normal?

Trying not to look toward the flashing cameras, I finally realize we’re standing next to Boone’s car, which is parked in a prime location behind the bar. Someone set up portable barricades like you would see outside a concert venue for crowd control, and three uniformed security guards stand with their arms crossed. The flashing cameras and shouting voices are beyond the wall of metal and muscle.

“They’re getting pictures of us together. Of you carrying me. Don’t you care? And did they really put a fence around your car? This is all crazy.” My hair, which was in a messy bun on top of my head, is now tangled around my shoulders.

Boone unlocks the car before shifting his attention back to me. He searches my face, but I don’t have a clue what he’s looking for. Finally, he speaks.

“You’re in my life, Ripley. It doesn’t matter how it happened, but it happened. Do I wish the press didn’t come with me? Sure, but it’s something I deal with. Am I going to let them stop me from doing what I want? Not a chance. It might be a little crazy, but maybe I am too—about you.”

Boone spears his fingers through my hair and cups the back of my head. His blue eyes flash before he lowers his mouth to mine.

My brain is telling my body to pull away. To stop him before the reporters get more ammunition to use against me. But my body flips my brain the bird and curls into Boone and his kiss.

When he finally pulls back, he studies my face again. “I’ve been wanting to do that all night. Let’s get you in the car so we can get out of here.”

Boone maneuvers me into the front seat and shuts the door. The questions from the press are muted now that I’m inside the car, and I can almost forget they’re out there. Almost.

When Boone finally climbs inside and fires up the engine, the security guards move the metal barriers to make room for the car to fit through. They do a good enough job keeping the press corralled so we can get by. Boone snags Hope’s keys from my hand and rolls down the window to toss them to a bald security guy.

“Take these to the head bartender inside. Thanks, man.”

Once we’re on the road, Boone revs the engine and hauls ass down the street.

That’s when it occurs to me that I have no clue where we’re going.