Page 4 of Lassoed Love

“You know tonight we’re not just celebrating the clinic. We’re celebrating life, freedom, and the fact that your hair is finally free from that perpetual ponytail!” Imogen declares.

Claire laughs loudly and chimes in. “Come on, girl, you're a vet, not a hermit! It's about time you wore something other than scrubs.”

I chuckle, feeling a sense of liberation mingling with the nerves.

“Alright, but we made a deal, remember? One drink, a little dancing, and then I reserve the right to retreat back into my sanctuary,” I say as Imogen turns back to the bar to order another round of shots.

So much for one drink.

“Okay, okay! But just one more shot! You never know, you might even find yourself a cowboy for the night.” Imogen leans in, her eyes dancing with mischief.

I roll my eyes.

“Trust you to bring up any mention of a cowboy, or any man, for that matter.”

“You just wait... A hot cowboy might be exactly what you need. Someone to ride for the night!”

I admonish Imogen for the suggestive joke, “Seriously? I’m not in the market for a cowboy… wait, you know they’re not called that around here, right?

She laughs, “Duh, but cowboy sounds a lot better than ‘HotFarmer’.Come on, Isla, live a little. Who knows, you might enjoy the rodeo.”

Claire joins in, “Isla, babe, as much as we can have fun together, there are certain things only a man can provide you.”

I roll my eyes. “Please spare me the details. I don't need a man to have fun when I’ve got the two of you.”

Claire smirks. “True, but again, we're missingvitalparts.” She mimics her previous statement with a wiggle of her eyebrows.

Imogen hands Claire and I our whiskey shots, and we down them simultaneously. I shake my head, already regretting this night’s trajectory.

And with that, Imogen seizes my wrist with her right and Claire’s with her left, pulling us toward the dance floor where couples twirl and laugh to the twangy melody. The rhythm of the music envelops us, and for a moment, I allow myself to be carried away. Imogen and Claire, my partners in crime for the night, spin around me with infectious enthusiasm. The constraints of the past weeks melt away, and the familiar strains of a country song blend with the pulse of the vibrant atmosphere.

But just as the night seems to stretch endlessly, a familiar voice cuts through the music.

“Well, well, if it ain’t Isla Thompson.”

I turn to face the source of the drawling voice, and leaning against a wooden beam with a cocky grin, is Trent Oldman.Oh, here we go.

“Wattle Creek just got a whole lot more interesting. What brings you back, Isla? Couldn’t handle the city lights?” he drawls,his gaze trailing over me.

The resentment for this guy that has been simmering beneath the surface for years flares up. Trent, always relishing the chance to rile me up, seems to take particular pleasure in my obvious discomfort.

I plaster a fake smile on my face. “Just visiting, Trent.I lie.You know, catching up on the thrilling life in our charming town.”

He chuckles, the sound grating on my nerves. “Visiting, huh? How long’s the city girl planning to grace us with her presence? And why now?”

Imogen, sensing my unease, shoots Trent a glare. “Why don’t you fuck off, Trent? Isla doesn’t need your interrogations tonight.”

Claire, never one to mince words, adds, “Yeah, Trent, go back to your little fan club and leave us in peace,” as she points to the table behind him with a few people who went to school with us, but are not important enough to remember their names.

Trent, seemingly unfazed, holds his hands up in surrender with a sly grin on his face, “Woah, woah. Easy there, ladies, wouldn’t want you to get your knickers in a knot.”

I hate him.

Imogen scoffs. “You must be delusional if you think anyone wants you near their knickers.”

Trent smirks. “Well, well, Imogen, still as feisty as ever. Maybe you’re the one who needs some company.”

Claire chimes in, “Honestly, Trent, fuck off. No cares for your bullshit. It’s a pity you haven’t changed since high school.”