The coast was clear so he stepped inside, the hot water sending him halfway to human. There was a tiny bottle of hotel shampoo perched in the soap dish and he gave it a dubious sniff. It smelled like flowers but would do the job of rinsing away stale perfume and sex. He worked a dollop through his thick hair, shoulder muscles relaxing.

He’d always prided himself on being the kind of good-time guy who held no regrets, but lately it seemed like there was a difference between dwelling on past mistakes and reflecting in order to avoid future ones. Did he really want to live out these shallow morning-after scenarios forever like some warped version of Groundhog Day?

The hair on the back of his neck tingled with the unmistakable sensation of being watched. He swiped suds from his eyes and turned, nearly nose-to-nose with the blank stare of the old-man ventriloquist’s dummy.

“Fuck,” he barked, any better word lost in shock.

“Great Uncle Sam don’t like it when menfolk cuss,” the dummy responded in a deep, Southern drawl. Other than the puppet on her hand, Dixie-Dorothy-Darby wore nothing but a suggestive smile.

“Uh . . . morning, beautiful.” Thank God for matching dimples, they’d charmed him out of enough bad situations.

“No one’s ever made me come so hard.” The puppet’s mustache bobbed as he spoke and more of last night’s drunken jigsaw puzzle snapped into place. Desdemona-Diana-Doris had gone on (and on) about her dream of becoming a professional ventriloquist. She’d brought out the puppet and made Great Uncle Sam talk dirty, which had been hilarious after Tequila Slammers, Snake Bites, Buttery Nipples, and 5 Deadly Venoms, plus a few bottles of champagne.

It was a whole lot less funny now.

“Hey, D, would you mind giving me a sec here? I’m going to finish rinsing off.” When in doubt, he always referred to a woman by her first initial, it made him sound affectionate instead of like an asshole.

“D?” rumbled Great Uncle Sam.

Damn. Apparently an initial wasn’t going to cut it.

Okay think . . . Dinah? No. Two rocks glinted from her lobes—a possible namesake. “Diamond?”

Great Uncle Sam slowly shook his head. Maybe it was Archer’s imagination, but the painted eyes narrowed fractionally. “Stormy.”

And so was her expression.

Not even close.

“Stormy?” he repeated blankly. “Yeah, Stormy, of course. Gorgeous name. Makes me think of rain and . . . and . . . rainbows . . . and . . .”

“You called it out enough last night, the least you could do is be a gentleman and remember it the next morning!” Great Uncle Sam head-butted him.

Add splitting headache to his current list of troubles.

Archer scrambled from the shower before he got his bare ass taken down by a puppet. You don’t fight back against a woman, even if she is trying to bash your brain in with Pinocchio’s demented elderly uncle.

“Get the hell out.” Stormy’s real voice sounded a lot more Jersey Shore than genteel Georgian peach farmer. She wasn’t half bad at the whole ventriloquist gig, but now wasn’t the time to offer compliments.

He threw on his Levi’s commando-style while Stormy eyed his package as if prepping to go Category Five hurricane on his junk. Scooping his red Western shirt off the floor, he made a break for the bedroom. His boots were by the door but his hat was still on the bed, specifically on Crystal’s head. Her sleepy expression gave way to confusion as Stormy sprang from the bathroom, Great Uncle Sam leading the charge.

“What’s going on?” Crystal asked as Stormy bellowed, “Prepare to have your manwhore ass kicked back into whatever cowpoke hole you crawled from.”

Hat? Boots? Hat? Boots? Archer only had time to grab one. He slung his arms through the shirt, not bothering to snap the pearl clasps, and grabbed the hand-tooled boots while hurtling into the hall. Yeah, definitely getting too old for this shit.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he called over one shoulder as the dove swooped.

He bypassed the elevator bay in favor of the stairwell. Once he’d descended three floors, he paused to tug on his boots and his phone rang. Pulling it out from his back pocket, he groaned at the screen. Grandma Kane.

He could let it go to voice mail. In fact, he was tempted to do just that, but the thing about Grandma was she called back until you picked up.

With a heavy sigh, and a prayer for two Tylenol, he hit “answer.” “How’s the best grandma in the world?” he boomed, propping the phone between his ear and shoulder and snapping together his shirt.

“Quit with your smooth talk, boy,” Grandma barked. “Where are you?”

“Leaving church,” he fibbed quickly.

“Better not be the Little Chapel of Love.”

“What do you—”

“Don’t feed me bullhickey. You’re in Vegas again.”

Sawyer must have squeaked. As Brightwater sheriff, he was into upright citizenship and moral standing, nobler than George Washington and his fucking cherry tree.

“Did you forget about our plans for this weekend?”

“Plans?” He wracked his brain but thinking hurt. So did walking down these stairs. Come to think of it, so did breathing. He needed that upcoming coffee and bacon like a nose needed picking.

Grandma made a rude noise. “To go over the accounts for Hidden Rock. You promised to set up the new purchase-order software on the computer.”

Shit. His shoulders slumped. He had offered to help. Grandma ran a large, profitable cattle ranch, but the Hidden Rock’s inventory management was archaic, and the accounting practically done by abacus. In his hurry to see if an impromptu Vegas road trip could overcome his funk, the meeting had slipped his mind. “Let me make it up to you—”

“Your charm has no currency here, boy.” Grandpa Kane died before Archer was born and Grandma never remarried. Perhaps he should introduce her to Stormy’s Great Uncle Sam. Those two were a match made in heaven, could spend their spare time busting his balls.

He closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. “I’m sorry, I completely forgot, okay?” Not okay. Grandma counted on him and he let her down.

“Funny, guess you’re probably too busy using women like disposable silverware.” Her tone sounded anything but amused. “Even funnier will be when I forget to put you in my will.”

Grandma’s favorite threat was disinheriting him. Who cared? The guy voted Biggest Partier and Class Flirt his senior year at Brightwater High was also the least likely to run Hidden Rock Ranch.

The line went dead. At least she didn’t ask why he couldn’t be more like Sawyer anymore.

Whatever. Archer had it good, made great tips as a wrangler at a dude ranch. His middle brother took life seriously enough and he hadn’t seen his oldest one in years. Wilder worked as a smoke jumper in Montana. Sometimes Archer wondered what would happen if he cruised to Big Sky Country and paid him a surprise visit—maybe he had multiple sister wives or was a secret war lord.

Growing up after their parents died in a freak house fire, they all slipped into roles. Wilder withdrew, brooding and angry, Sawyer became Mr. Nice Guy, always the teacher’s pet or offering to do chores. Archer rounded things out by going for laughs and practical jokes and causing trouble because someone had to remind everyone else not to take life so seriously. None of them were getting out alive.

He kept marching down the flights of stairs, tucking in his shirt. Grandma’s words played on a loop in his mind. “Using women like disposable silverware.”

Lord knew—those women used him right back. It was fun, didn’t mean anything.

Meaningless.

He ground his jaw so tight his teeth hurt. Casual sex on pool tables, washing machines, countertops, and lawn chairs filled his physical needs, but these random hookups were starting to make him feel more and more alone.