Her fingers flew now as she raced to type in the exact conversation she’d just heard. Maybe it would make sense later.
“Can I help you?” The first man’s voice rose sharply.
She looked up and found all four of the men staring at her. Busted. She hit send on the email to herself and then faced the men. “Oh, hey, boys. Just texting my BFF while I waited for my refill.” Her phone dinged with the new email message and she held it up, jiggling it as proof.
“You’re not from here,” the man Laurel had seen said. And now she had a good look at his stubbled face. No DOT uniforms on any of them.
“Nope, from the city. Just getting away for the week.”
“You’re a tourist?” said another. Shorter than the first. Beanpole.
“Yep,” she said brightly. “Well, bye.”
She moved away but the man on the end jumped up, blocking her path. Lyle. His thick beard covered his face but his dark, beady eyes shone through just fine. Mean eyes. He moved closer, hovering and glowering down at her in a flannel that smelled like it hadn’t been washed recently. “Funny. Most tourists don’t get invited to sit with the Wilde Crew.”
She lifted a brow. “I’m just lucky, I guess.” When she didn’t shrink or back away, he grabbed her wrist. “Take your hand off me,” she warned him.
But he held fast, squeezing harder when she tried to wriggle away. “Not so fast. What did you say your name was again?”
The rest of the men fell silent. Hot anger bubbled in her chest and she closed her hands into fists. They might be all ready for some sort of small-town showdown but she’d had enough of their shit.
“Actually, I didn’t.” She raised her boot and brought it down hard on Lyle’s foot, digging her heel in as hard as she could.
He yelped and jumped back, releasing her. The other three scrambled out of the booth and came toward her. She backed away, slamming her glass hard against the nearest table top. It shattered and she brandished the jagged piece she still held, waving it in front of her.
The rest of the customers gave a collective gasp. She wanted to laugh at how cliché the whole thing was—even the fact that Wynona kept right on singing through it all. But she had four angry cowboys on her hands now and not a friendly face in sight. They all just stared back at her, some in surprise, some in distaste. Clearly, no one was going to lift a finger to help the tourist.
To her right, the door banged open so hard, the glass cracked.
Jake stepped inside, hands fisted, muscles bunched. His gaze was furious and glorious as he gave her a once-over. His eyes widened fractionally when he spotted the broken mug in her hand. “You all right?” he asked in a voice that was violently calm.
She nodded. “Peachy.”
He shifted, his fury pinning the man with beard where he stood. “Lyle. Is there a problem?”
One by one, Xavier and the rest of the crew filed in behind Jake. None of them moved to stop him or take over. They all stood back except for Harley who came over and stood beside her with arms crossed.
“Please say there’s a problem,” Harley murmured.
“No problem,” Lyle said, casting a glance at Jake then the door and then back again.
“Rita, they owe a tab?” Jake called.
“Damn right they owe their tab,” called the older woman behind the bar.
Lyle motioned to the skinny man next to him. “Pay the damn tab, Tim,” Lyle snapped as if the whole thing was Tim’s fault.
Tim produced a small wad of cash and handed it off to Rita. She pocketed it without counting. “Where’s my change?” Tim asked and Lyle smacked the back of his head.
“Time to go,” Jake said.