Bill Williamson was drunker than hell, sprawled out on his back in the tent, his body heavy and uncooperative. His head spun with the buzz of whiskey, and his thoughts were sloshing like the contents of a bottle that had seen too many hard nights. He stared up at the canvas, trying to focus but his mind kept drifting. That damn night in town was playing on repeat—hell, he couldn’t stop thinkin’ about it.

The way you walked in, all fancy with them frilly clothes, spoutin’ words that went over Bill’s head but still left him damn near mesmerized. He’d never been the type to get turned on by the quiet, delicate ones, but somethin’ about you was different. That little waist, those frilly clothes, and the way you carried yourself—it made Bill’s blood race in ways he hadn’t felt in a long while. You weren’t his type, but hell, one thing led to another, didn’t it? And now here he was, stuck in a tent with you, his gut full of whiskey and confusion.

His hand reached down, fumbling with his trousers, tryin’ to tug ‘em over his lardass without trippin’ over his own damn feet. But of course, luck wasn’t on his side. He slipped, falling right onto your legs with a grunt, a curse tumbling from his lips.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Bill winced, feelin’ his gun dig into his side. Luckily, it didn’t go off and shoot him in the ass—just nicked him enough to make him regret ever movin’. His face flushed a mix of frustration and embarrassment as he lay there, half-drunk and sprawled out on top of you.

Bill tried to shuffle off, but by then you were already awake. Bill froze, still laying across your legs like a damn fool, feeling the awkwardness settle like the weight of a hundred-pound stone.

He shifted, trying to get up, but he couldn’t quite find the words. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, not sure if he was mad at himself or you. Probably both.