“Bourbon,” he said. “Neat.”

She inclined her head. “Right away.”

Ivy brushed past him. Could feel him watching her as she crossed the room toward the bar, but she refused to look back. Though she possibly added a bit more sway to her hips.

“Table 15 needs drinks,” she told her coworker Vanessa. “Could you handle that for me? Dirty martini for the Dancing Queen. Three olives.” They’d all seen the blonde shaking her ass in that leather dress. “Bourbon, neat, for the cowboy.”

Setting cocktail napkins on her tray while Kent, the bartender, filled her order, Vanessa shook her head, her short, artificially red hair swinging. “Don’t try to pawn your butt-grabber off on me. I’ve gone the entire evening without any pats, rubs or pinches. I’d like to keep it that way. Preserve the record.”

Ah, the life of a cocktail waitress. People thought the goods being displayed were theirs to touch. Even a subdued, family-type gathering such as an engagement party could get out of hand once the alcohol started flowing.

“He’s not a butt-grabber,” Ivy said. A man who looked like that, with that deep, subtle twang, didn’t have to resort to creepy tactics to get a woman’s attention.

“I was talking about the woman,” Vanessa said. “She looks capable and more than ready to eat anyone alive. And there must be a reason you don’t want to deliver them yourself.”

Many, many reasons. The number one being self-preservation.

“Trust me,” Ivy said. “Your butt is safe. And the reason I don’t want to deliver them myself is because it’s my break time.”

“Fine. I’ll switch you table 15 for table 8.”

“Done.” Ivy skirted the bar and snagged a flute of champagne from a tray before pushing through the door to a small hallway. She walked past the kitchen on her right, then, farther down, a small break room on the left and kept going until she reached the metal exterior door.

She pushed it open and stepped out into the night. The cold stung her cheeks, stole her breath. Still, she kept going, her high heels echoing on the pavement as she crossed the dimly lit parking lot to her ancient car. She climbed behind the wheel, shut the door and stared blindly through the windshield.

What was that? What the hell was that?

The cowboy had flustered her. Unnerved her. Worse than that, he’d known it.

She’d given him power. Control. Had pretty much handed them over to him on a platter along with her good sense and a portion of her pride.

She took a gulp of champagne. Bubbles exploded inside her mouth, the taste light and expensive, but it did nothing to wash away the bitterness rising in her throat.

Men never flustered her. Why should they? They were simple souls with simple needs. Basic needs. When they saw her, they saw opportunity. What she could do for them. What she had to give them. How she could make them feel.

Why shouldn’t she turn that around—twist their desire for her, their attraction to her—to her advantage? A warm smile, a light, friendly touch to an arm, some harmless flirting could all increase her night’s tips.

And she was always—always—the one ruling the game.

Until one tall, green-eyed cowboy had to come along and mess things up.

She finished the champagne. Wished she’d helped herself to two glasses.

Or at least had had the foresight to grab her coat.

The cowboy’s fault, as well. He’d scrambled her thoughts. Her attraction to him had thrown her for a loop, but that was over now. No man got the better of Ivy Rutherford.

The passenger door was yanked opened and she squeaked in surprise, her breath hanging in the air a few inches before her face like a tiny cloud.

“What are you doing out here?” Ivy asked seventeen-year-old Gracie Weaver as the teenager flopped onto the seat and shut the door. “And where’s your coat?”

Ivy shook her head. Great. She sounded like a mom. Not Ivy’s mother, of course. One of those sitcom moms who always had time for their kids, cared about whether they were warm enough.

One of those moms who loved their daughters instead of blaming them for ruining their lives.

“Brian said he saw you leave,” Gracie said, her teeth already chattering. “I figured you’d be here.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

“One of the guests wants to speak with you. Said it was important.”

Ivy’s fingers tightened on the glass so hard, she was afraid it’d shatter into a million pieces. Slowly, carefully she set it on the console next to her sunglasses and an empty to-go coffee cup.

“Oh?” Her voice sounded strangled, so she cleared her throat. “Which guest?” she asked, though she already knew.

Oh, yeah, she knew.

“The guy in the cowboy hat.”

“Tall? With blond hair and green eyes?”

“Yes and yes. Plus, he’s the only guy in the building—probably in the whole town—wearing a cowboy hat. Not sure how else to narrow it down for you.” Gracie frowned and rubbed her hands together, then blew on them. “Do you think it’s acceptable to wear a cowboy hat indoors? Because my grandma would have a fit if Dad wore his baseball cap inside the house.”

“Let’s focus on the topic at hand, shall we?” If Ivy didn’t keep Gracie on track, the kid could veer so far off topic, they’d never find their way back. “I’m sure whatever the cowboy wishes to discuss, he can do so with Wendy.” It would serve the cowboy right if Ivy sent her uptight supervisor over to see what he wanted. “Besides, I already switched tables with Vanessa. She’s more than capable of getting his drinks.”

“But he wants to talk to you,” Gracie said.

“He seems like a guy well used to getting his way.” She remembered the confidence in his eyes, bordering on arrogance. The way he held himself, as if he owned the room and everything—and everyone—in it. “This will be a great life lesson for him.”

“What if he gets upset?”

“He’ll get over it. A little disappointment never killed anyone.”

“I wouldn’t disappoint him.” The teen was all innocent earnestness and dreamy sighs. “He’s completely hot. And nice. We had a very interesting conversation earlier, and he didn’t come across as creepy at all.”

Ivy smiled. Leave it to Gracie to put her in a better mood, no matter what the situation. “Well, noncreep or not, I have no intention of doing his bidding.”

“I’m just saying he seems decent. And,” Gracie continued, pulling something from her pocket, “he gave me this for finding you.”

Ivy raised her eyebrows at the one hundred dollar bill currently being waved in her face. “Really? He bribed a minor to do his dirty work?”

Gracie wrinkled her nose. “I think it was more of a tip. Which means he’s generous.”

“What it means is that he’s willing to pay any price to get his way. That he doesn’t mind throwing his money around.”

“You could give him a chance. Maybe he just wants to get to know you.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s it,” Ivy said blandly. “After speaking with me for less than five minutes, he’s intrigued by my mind. Attracted to my sparkling personality.”

Oh, to be so young and innocent in the ways of the world.

Ivy almost envied the teen.

“It’s possible,” Gracie insisted. “Who knows? Maybe he’s your soul mate. And if you don’t go back there, you could miss your chance with him.”

“Honey, I believe in soul mates as much as I do Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.” She softened her tone, squeezed Gracie’s arm. “But, to go along with your soul-mates-and-fate theory, we’ll just say if it’s meant to be, then it’ll be. I could ignore him for the rest of the night, and it wouldn’t change anything. We’d still end up together.”

As long as they ended up together on her terms. Not his.

“I just find it sad,” Gracie said with all the melodrama of a soap star, “incredibly, momentously sad, that you’re so...so...”

“So...pragmatic?” Ivy asked when the teenager struggled to find the right adjective. Which was unusual as Gracie typically had no trouble with words and loved using as many as possible. “Practical? Reasonable? Realistic?”