“Can take the girl out of the country, but can’t take the country out of the girl, eh?” He smirks, and my entire bodywarms at the way his eyes rake over my body. “Country looks better on you, anyway.”
For an indeterminate amount of time, I nurse my mixed drink and pretend my skull isn’t filled with TV static. Letting them know that the Earth is rotating at an alarmingly fast pace isn’t going to help my “I can handle my liquor” argument. So I rest my chin in my hand, pretending to be engaged in the boys’ conversation about the ranch, and fight to keep my mind from wandering to the way Denver’s leg is constantly bumping into mine, even though every graze makes my heart flutter.
In my periphery, he swallows his beer, the short stubble along his jaw catching my eye in the golden light of dusk. So much of him is the same—strong shoulders, slender body, dusty brown hair. But there’s a few permanent creases on his rugged face. New scars on his deeply tanned, veiny forearms. Maybe even a gray hair or two, though it’s hard to tell in this lighting. Stupid men and their ability to age like fine wine in spite of their crappy diets, too much sun, and lack of a skin care regime.
Cass turns to Red, crinkling her nose in the way she always does before she asks a question she’s anxious about. She leans in closer, whispering something. He whispers back. At least…I think they’re whispering. I certainly can’t make out what they’re talking about over the drum solo on stage behind us.
Denver’s hand falls to my thigh, and I practically jump out of my skin—instantly sobered. When my startled stare meets his molasses-brown eyes, he silently mouths, “You good?”
I give a curt nod, turning back to where Cassidy and Red are simultaneously sliding off the picnic bench.
“We’re heading out—you coming?” Cass asks me.
I should go home and sleep off both the alcohol and the weird feelings rattling around in my head. Continue avoidingDenver as much as possible. I came back to Wells Canyon to take care of my dying mother and help my best friend with her baby, not to get wrapped up in local cowboys.Especiallynot the one creating pulsating heat between my legs just from touching his knee to mine.
“Nah, I’m gonna stay awhile longer. I think I want to dance.” My traitorous mouth speaks without warning. Cass looks me up and down—without a doubt, she’s going to give me hell for this later.
“Okay, don’t get into too much trouble.”
“Yes, Mom.” I bat my eyes at her.
God, I really am drunk.
“Love you guys,” Denver adds as Cass gives me one final side-eye before turning to leave, Red’s arm wrapped snugly around her waist.
Denver hardly gives our friends time to get out of earshot before he turns to me. “You’re hammered, aren’t ya?”
I purse my lips at him, glaring, not appreciating being called out like this. “Am not.”
With a cocky eyebrow raise, he snickers. “Still awful at hiding it, I see. I kept hitting your knee to check if you were okay. I know you tend to hurl after too many drinks.”
Good to know I wasn’t imagining the knee knocks. But my stomach drops unexpectedly at the realization that he was only doing it to slyly get my attention to check whether I’m about to vomit or not. Not because he wanted to touch me.
Fuck, Blair. Get it together.
“I’m actually super sober,” I say. “I could go for poutine, though.”
“I can’t wait for you to ruin poutine for me when you throw that up everywhere later.” He looks at me with a smile, dimples so prominent I would happily do another shot of tequila right out of them. “Maybe we dance first, eat poutine after. Slightly decreases the chance of spewage.”
“Zero chance, because a couple shots of tequila is nothin’.”
He snorts in disbelief.For good reason, arguably.
I’m pleasantly surprised to find that I’m capable of standing—albeit with a slight sway. Nothing some fries smothered in cheese and gravy won’t fix. Denver’s immediately beside me, fingers tightening around my elbow while we navigate through the crowd.
“If you must know, I actually can’t remember the last time I threw up.” Or drank tequila…but that’s beside the point.
“Too grown up to drink to excess now? I guess in the city you probably sip on twelve-dollar cocktails and talk about the stock market instead.”
“The cocktails taste betterandget you drunk faster than the water you call beer.”
“Damn, shots fired.” He pretends to be taken aback for half a second, then holds out his hand to pull me onto the dance floor.
His fingers graze mine, stealing my breath. And when he pulls me into him, I almost throw up from the whiplash of memories—dancing together in his childhood bedroom, making love on a picnic blanket, holding him tight after losing his mom. He’s broader in the shoulders than he once was, but familiar enough to make my heart ache.
Falling into sync like no time has passed, we traverse the dance space, two-stepping and twirling. We take it easy for the first song, sticking to the most basic moves, keeping space between our bodies. But by the third round, our hips fit together like puzzle pieces, and there’s a fire when he looks into my eyes. His hand spreads across my lower back, letting me lean back so the ends of my hair kiss the concrete, before yanking me in tight. Close enough his cologne floods my senses, and his breath blows hot on my cheek.
With a flick, he has me unraveling across the dance floor until our arms are outstretched, and a laugh bubbles up frommy chest at the boyish grin on his face. Connected only by our fingers, I’m dying to be back in his embrace. Skin stinging at the loss of his touch.
