Instant USA Today Bestseller! A grumpy cowboy and an even grumpier chef who are used to knocking boots and walking away are shocked to discover a deeper—if not antagonistic—connection after their night together, in the final book in the Griffith Brothers series. Lennon’s number one rule is: Committing crimes is not a group project. Rule number two: Don’t start fights. Finish them. And rule number three: Don’t try to hustle a hustler. She knows she should have walked away and ignored that sweet-talking cowboy. Good things didn’t happen to people like her. But that cowboy wouldn’t leave her alone. And he should have known that if you can’t stand the heat, it’s better to get out of the kitchen. Carson James knew the woman was trouble from the moment he laid eyes on her bruised knuckles in the bar. The last thing he expected was for her to show up on the ranch and bring that trouble to his front door. And he’s discovering it’s hard to maintain a grudge against a woman you find so attractive. He’s always liked playing with fire, but apparently so does she. Only time will tell which of them is going to get burned. Maggie Gates writes raw, relatable romance novels packed full of heat and humor. Maggie calls North Carolina home. In her spare time, she enjoys daydreaming about her characters, jamming to country music, and eating all the barbecue and tacos she can find! Her e-reader is always within reach due to a love of small-town romances that borders on obsession. A neon glow bathed the Silver Spur in soft blues. The chaos of pool tables, a band, and the clink of glasses as two bartenders mixed drinks blended into a wall of sound. My palms hit the edge of the polished oak bar as I found an open stool. A blonde bartender glanced over, her eyes meeting mine for a moment before returning to her work. With practiced ease, she poured two fingers of Jack into a glass and slid it to a customer without looking up. "Whadda ya want?" she hollered over the ruckus. "Beer," I said. "Whatever's cold." "Easy enough." She grabbed a bottle out of the ice chest and dropped it in front of me. I debated paying cash or starting a tab. I didn't plan on sticking around long-just long enough to disassociate for a while. But I did drive all the way out here . . . If I only drank one beer, it'd be the most expensive drink of my life. A body pushed against mine and craned over the bar. "I need a towel." "Ever heard of waiting your turn?" I muttered as I handed the bartender my card to start a tab. The woman turned to me when the bartender disappeared, flashing a pair of split knuckles. "The last guy got it worse. You wanna be next, cowboy?" The accent told me she wasn't from around here. Not even close. She said you wanna like a true New Yorker. It reminded me of my sister-in-law. She was a pain in the ass too. "Pipe down, slugger. Ain't nothing that serious." The bartender gave the woman a handful of ice wrapped in a towel and asked, "Did you start it or finish it?" The woman grabbed it and pressed the ball of ice to her knuckles. "Finished it." The bartender waved her off. "Fine by me. Stay out of trouble." Brown eyes flicked up and down, tracking from my boots to my beer, up my chest, then to my face. "See how fast that was? Now you can get back to drinking your shitty beer and looking broody." I took a long pull from the bottle and drank her in with my eyes. Her hair glowed under the neon signs like it was invisible ink under a black light. Onyx hair intertwined with snow-white streaks. Sleeves of tattoos covered both arms. She had a slice through her eyebrow and a stud dotting her nose. She was hot. And unpredictable. I scoffed to try to hide my smile. "You'd run into less trouble if your mouth didn't write checks your ass can't cash." She let a caustic laugh slip. "You think I go around punching people? He had it coming." "Sure, slugger. That's what they all say." She shrugged. "He shoulda known better than to make a bet and refuse to pay up. If you're gonna be a loser, be an honorable one." She had a point there. "Tell you what." I pointed around the bar to the pool tables and dartboards. "Pick your poison. You win, and I'll buy your next drink." Her mouth curved up into a devilish smile. "Sorry, cowboy. I play for money." "Yeah?" I hooked a finger in the belt loop of her denim shorts and tugged her closer. "Well, I play for keeps." "Not interested," slipped from her lips, but I caught the way her voice softened. The way her eyes flicked to my mouth. "I'm not from around here anyway." "Neither am I." "Pool. Hundred bucks says I'll beat you." "Fifty." "Seventy-five." "Fine." I finished off my beer and pulled out my wallet, showing her the bills. "I'm good for it." Something wicked lingered in her smile. "Rack 'em up, cowboy." "What makes you think I'm a cowboy?" I slid my hand onto the small of her back and led her to an open pool table. She let out a loud, raucous laugh. "You're one ma'am