Page 9 of Up in Smoke (The Bunkhouse #3)

MESA

My walk isn’t completely graceful as I gingerly follow Savannah back into the main area of the bunkhouse. One wrong move and these minuscule excuses for straps are going to snap right in half.

The thin material I’m wearing leaves little to the imagination. Thankfully, I only have to wear it for a few minutes, and not for the entire wedding night. A luxurious dress like this one could make a girl do things she’d swear she wouldn’t do anymore.

That thought provides me with a perfect example of why I’m cutting myself off from romance for the foreseeable future. One little night of dress-up, and I’m already fantasizing about being swept off my feet like a princess in a pretty pink gown.

Smacking myself would be just plain embarrassing, so I sweep the escaped strands of hair out of my face and level my chin instead.

Warren and Savannah look incredible next to each other, and I smile at them while gently smoothing my hands over my hips. The soft, silky material feels almost as yummy as it looks.

Sure, the petal pink color probably does nothing for my complexion. Red hair and pink hues aren’t the most ideal pairing, but I feel positively radiant in it anyway.

“ You and you ,” the confident silver-haired lady directs. My head snaps up in time to see her eyes fixed on me. “Stand next to each other.”

I look around at first, then point to myself. “Me?”

A shadow blocks the light in my peripheral. A clean, woodsy scent invades my nostrils, and before I can look up, a hand stretches toward me.

A quite large, male hand, I might add.

I should move. Say something. Instead, I stare, eyes lingering on the decoration of thick veins and swirling ink on the underside of his forearm.

Now, that’s art.

The moment I become aware of my ogling, my nose scrunches and I slam my eyes shut.

The man attached to the art exhibit of a forearm speaks up before I can clear my throat and will my voice to function properly.

“Careful. Blythe might ask you to be in the wedding if we look too good next to each other.”

My eyes open again, finally landing on his face.

His full lips are tipped up in a smirk, a somehow perfect complement to his teasing, yet relaxed, cadence.

The angles of his bone structure are strong and pronounced.

His hair is nearly black and is cut close on the sides, while the top is long enough to grab.

To casually style, I mean.

I continue observing him, landing on his piercing gaze. My head tilts. How odd—the fascinating contrast between his eyes that say trust me and his smirk that says don’t.

Glancing down and noticing, once again, the open shirt under his suit jacket makes me press my lips together to tamp down my amusement.

I can’t explain how or why my arm lifts involuntarily in the next few seconds.

Without further hesitation, my fingers slip over his, and our palms connect.

The chill bumps were expected, to be honest. I can distance myself from relationships, but I can’t control my body’s reaction to touching a man with that much charismatic aura.

“That wouldn’t be so bad,” I say truthfully with a smile. Shit. My flirtatious response was entirely instinctual. The old me is slipping through, and she’d gush over being the girl on this man’s arm at a wedding. “I’m Mesa.”

I think he shakes my hand. Maybe it was more of a squeeze.

“I know who you are,” he says.

My mouth drops open slightly—just enough to let a whisper of air into my lungs to keep the color in my face.

“Okay,” the lady who wanted us to stand by each other cuts in, “turn this way. And walk forward a few steps.”

My wedding-date-for-show bends his right arm and, in one smooth move, lifts it over my hand so that it can loop through. I curl my fingers around his bicep and laugh when he deliberately flexes. He’s not sly, and I think he knows it.

Savannah and Blythe look on with bright eyes. We step forward, and I grip his arm as if I need the added stability. I’m not wearing heels that would warrant such a firm clutch for balance, but it’s better for the wedding planner if she can get a realistic scene.

I do what I can to keep my focus ahead. Still, I don’t miss him flipping Warren off with his free hand as we walk past, which makes me smile.

The bearded one next to Blythe cocks an eyebrow. The big, quiet one half-chuckles, half-huffs from somewhere behind us. Warren looks worried for some reason, and I swallow hard.

“ Absolutely stunning, ” the lady states, exaggerating her words.

She taps on the tablet in her hand for a moment before returning her attention to the future wedding party and one stand-in bridesmaid.

“All good here. The only thing left is the final fitting for the best man, and then we’ll go over final reception details next week. ”

“Thank you so much,” Blythe says, pulling her in for a swift hug and then turning toward Savannah. “The dresses are exactly what I envisioned. I could not be happier!”

She’s a bubbly bride-to-be. The rosy flush in her cheeks and the sparkle in her smile say it all—she can’t wait to get married.

I never understood the ones who get unreasonably upset or overly worked up while planning their big day. Weddings are a happy occasion, are they not? Some brides forget that. They have no idea how lucky they are.

Blythe and Savannah rave to each other about the successful fittings, and I try to listen in on their giddy conversation, but all I can focus on is the fact that the man currently trapping my hand between his arm and rib cage is looking at me.

At least . . . I feel him looking at me. I haven’t chanced a peek yet to confirm.

All of a sudden, I’m hyper-aware of the tight dress clinging to my body. My weight shifts from one foot to the other, and I run my free hand over the fitted bodice.

“I’ve got to get out of this dress.”

Without turning my head completely, I peer over to see his lifted brow. Nope. Not going there.

Now seems like a good time to untangle the pretzel we’re in. Slowly, I drag my hand over his upper arm and pull it away from its cozy bicep bed. He pouts, and I almost laugh out loud. His playfulness makes me wonder if he’s secretly much younger than I am.

“How old are you?” I ask.

His lips curve into a wistful grin. “Old enough to remember filling all the nasty cups with booze instead of water in beer pong.”

I’m getting a sense that he’s the type of guy who doesn’t play fair because he’s never had to. Giving indirect answers to make me laugh is damning evidence. Oddly enough, his cryptic response does land him in a specific age bracket.

“Elder millennial. Interesting. And what’s your name?”

“Tripp,” he answers quickly while rubbing the spot where my hand was.

I figured as much, but I had to double-check. Too bad he isn’t a standard Jarred or Jake. Something boring. Tripp is a downright cute name and it fits him well. I bet it rolls right off the tongue when girls scream it every night. He probably likes hearing it moaned in his ear?—

I shake my head and abruptly cut off my own thoughts when he not-so-subtly eyes me from head to toe.

“Don’t look at me like that . . . Tripp .”

He scoffs but stretches his mouth into a broader smile. “Like what?”

“Like you’re waiting for me to bat my eyelashes and ask for your help with the zipper on my dress or something.”

He crosses his arms and tilts his head. With no prior interactions to go off of, I’m unable to truly discern what’s on his mind, but I try. The way he patiently studies my expression makes me think he’s searching for a hint of flirtation.

Every few seconds, he casually chews the gum in his mouth. I wait for him to say something, but he remains silent. Uneasy pressure builds in my chest at the sudden thought of him taking what I said too seriously.

I clasp my hands in front of me and bat my eyelashes dramatically, hoping it’ll make him smile.

The laugh that bursts from his chest is so bright, I thought someone turned more lights on in the room.

Although I’ve just met him, I can see why he and his friends are as close as Savannah says they are.

“Are you always this cute?” he asks.

Did his eyes just sparkle? I can only imagine the years of practice it takes to achieve a fucking eye sparkle.

This has got to be a test. I tilt my face to the ceiling in a silent curse at the universe. Baby steps would have been nice. You send a hot, funny guy? I don’t think I’m equipped with the sheer willpower required to back away completely.

After a cleansing breath and a moment of brainstorming, I level with him.

“Smooth.” I force my eyes to roll and pray the blush on my cheeks isn’t as apparent as it feels. “Cheesy one-liners don’t work on me, though.”

“No problem. Give me your number and I’ll test out a few different approaches.”

“God, no. I hate the talking stage.” That sentence was meant to be an inner thought, but I seem to have lost my ability to keep it to myself.

“Yeah, let’s skip that,” he agrees. “No questions about your favorite color or ice cream flavor. Promise.”

I shake my head with a laugh as he reaches for the phone in his pocket. He’s entirely undeterred, so I’ll have to be firmer.

God only knows why I’m still standing here when I know full well that this man is a red flag wrapped in neon yellow caution tape. Indulging in the conversation is my knee-jerk reaction around above-average-looking men, unfortunately.

If his boldness weren’t so entertaining, I’d have already strutted away.

There’s something interesting about his personality that I like, but the fact remains that playboys have never served me well.

And he most definitely gives off player energy.

I quite literally don’t have time for that nonsense, nor any other type of man right now, for that matter.

This is my opportunity to demonstrate my capacity for growth—no more pathetic little Mesa Kate. The new version of me isn’t so easily wooed.

“How else am I supposed to beg you to come over later?” he goes on. “I’ll do it right here in front of everyone instead of texting if you want me to.”

“Are you being serious right now?” I lean back slightly and try to keep my face from revealing my amusement. “Don’t waste your time. I’m not looking for a boyfriend at the moment.”

“Is that so?”

I lift my chin. “Yes. And I’m far too busy for anything else, either.”

“Hmm,” he hums with a nod. “Sounds like you’ve got a lot on your plate. That must be pretty stressful. Wanna kiss about it?”

“You mean talk about it?”

“No.”

My brain says do not engage . My hormones? They’re encouraging him and already halfway to his room.

I tilt my head back to laugh at the ceiling. He’s too confident for his own good. What was the reason for my strict no-contact policy with men for the foreseeable future? Oh, right. Because I’m easily charmed, struggle to put up a front, and will fold any second now.

Woman with weak defenses in search of self-respect, here. I did not survive my last situationship just to be emotionally derailed by a man who asked me if I want to kiss about it.

He taps on his phone and then holds it out between us. Reluctantly, I take it and purse my lips at the screen, which shows a new contact entry that he labeled with the word ‘please’ instead of a name.

“Please,” I say through more laughter. “You’re funny, Tripp. But if you were thinking that would land you a date, I’m sorry to say you chose the wrong girl.”

“That’s not what I was thinking.”

My smile is impossible to wipe away, even if I trail a hand down my face. “ Sure . Alright then, let’s hear it. What were you really thinking?”

Damn my curiosity.

I move to give him his phone back, but he stuffs his hands in his pockets instead of taking it.

It’s nearly impossible to fight a step back when he leans toward me in the next moment. Our eyes lock as I wait for his confession. He lowers his voice so that, even a foot away, I can barely hear the words under his breath.

“I was thinking I’d bet my truck you have purple panties on.”