When I come back in, our mouths nearly collide out of habit. It feels right to kiss somebody when you’re lost in each other on the dance floor, and the thought of kissinghimin particular feels like kismet. But I roll my lips together and push on, refusing to let the way he cradles my body against his be enough to break down my resolve.
Denver dips me again. This time, while I’m entranced by the blurry street lamps outside the rodeo grounds, he grabs me by the belt buckle to whip my body upright. I’m so fucking close to him my breasts collide with his chest during every gasping breath. He keeps his hold on my buckle for longer than necessary, eyes locked on mine. Tucked under the waistband of my jeans, his fingertips are softly grazing my bare lower stomach. Inches from where I’m suddenly wet and throbbing with need. My hips roll instinctively toward his touch, forcing it a tiny bit lower, and I nearly forget all the reasons why I shouldn’t kiss him right now.
Heartache on the dance floor is damn right.
My name leaves his lips and I stare at the smooth, pink skin, wondering for a split second if he’s about to kiss me.
Breathlessly, I mutter, “We should go get our poutine before the food trucks close.”
“Right…right.We should.”
He lets go of my body, and it takes every ounce of my quickly fading self-control not to tangle my hands in his hair and kiss him with years’ worth of pent-up longing. But instead I settle for letting him take my hand to lead me out of the crowd, toward the scent of French fries.
“It’s been way too long since I danced like that,” I say, catching my breath and dropping his hand, hit by a blast of cool night air outside the swath of people.
“No country bars in the big city?”
“Can’t say I actually looked into whether there are or not.” I shrug, as if the thought never crossed my mind. To tell the truth, I didn’t go looking for country bars because the idea of country swing dancing or two-stepping with anyone else sounded like a surefire route to lying in bed in a depression coma for two days straight.
Stepping up to the food truck’s window, Denver orders a large poutine. I try three times to pay for it, but he shuts me out—blocking me from getting to the window, gently pushing my hand away when I thrust a wad of cash at the food truck employee, and shushing me when I start to insist.
I give up with a dramatic sigh, and the moment Denver has our heaping order in his hands, I’m grabbing a too-hot fry and nibbling it carefully. “You know, I have money. If anything, it would just be paying you back for all the times you bought me food when we were kids.”
“Then technically you owe my mom. She was the one slipping me a secret allowance for you every week.”
“Great.” I lick a dollop of gravy off my fingertip and scrunch my nose. “Now I feel bad about the disgusting amount of sour key candies I consumed growing up—knowing Lucy was paying for it.”
“I see how it is,” he says with a smile that reaches his eyes, picking up a fry and tapping it against mine. “You were fine with bleeding my wallet dry all summer, but feel bad when you find out my mom was bankrolling your candy addiction?”
“Absolutely.”
“Are you shitting me?” Denver buries his face in his hands.
Suddenly regretting my snarky response, I tilt my head to try and get a glimpse of his face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“No, sorry, not you,” he interrupts. “You’re all good. Real quick—can you do me a favor?”
I raise an eyebrow, bringing a French fry to my lips. “Let’s hear it.”
“Well, there’s this girl…fuckingobsessedwith me.”
I cut him off, holding a finger up between us, stopping him from digging a deeper hole. “Immediately no. I’ve heard enough.”
“Blair.”
“Denver.”
“The girl you saw me with at the rodeo—”
“And the bar.”
“So you did notice Peyton refusing to leave me alone at the bar.”
I chew on a cheese curd, pretending to be unfazed by the thought of him with another woman. “You seemed pretty content.”
He definitely wasn’t shoving her away. Not that he had to. He doesn’t owe me anything after all these years, especially when my actions broke us up in the first place. It’s a good thing he moved on, even if it kills me. Actually, the nagging pain of rejection I’m currently feeling deep in my chest is tolerable. Much better than what might happen if I let myself get attached and end up hurt again.
“I had an injury and was trapped, but I didn’t want her there. I wasn’t lying to you when I said I broke things off in the ambulance. Besides, we were never serious, and I made thatveryclear from the start. But she’s having some trouble understanding that, and now she’s a bit of a stage-five clinger.”
