We’re barely through the door when Baby’s voice carries over the jukebox. “Well, well, well! Willa, get your ass over here!”
Every head in the bar turns to look at us. Willa goes stiff beside me, and I slide my arm around her waist, pulling her close.
“My girl tonight, Baby,” I say calmly.
“Like hell, McCrea, I get dibs first.” Baby’s already coming around the bar, her eyes bright with mischief. She grabs Willa’s hand. “Come on, honey. Girl talk. Now.”
“Baby, I—” Willa protests, but Baby’s dragging her toward the back hallway.
“I’ll get us a table,” I call after them.
Baby waves a dismissive hand over her shoulder, and then they disappear around the corner. I can only imagine what Baby’s saying to her—probably some combination of encouragement, teasing, and threats about what she’ll do to me if I hurt her.
I find a booth in the corner, away from the mechanical bull and the main flow of traffic, and settle in to wait. Five minutes turns into ten, and I’m starting to wonder if I should go check on them when Willa finally reappears.
Her cheeks are flushed, and there’s something lighter in her expression, like whatever Baby said actually helped. She slides into the booth across from me and sets down a beer.
“Food’s on the way,” she says. “Baby’s orders, apparently.”
“What did she say to you back there?”
Willa’s lips curve into a small smile. “That’s between Baby and me. Girl code.”
“Fair enough.” I take a sip of my beer, watching her over the rim. “So tell me about growing up in Muddy Creek. What was little Willa James like?”
She relaxes back into the booth, one shoulder brushing the worn vinyl. I can see her foot already tapping to the low country song playing from the jukebox.
“I was a tomboy,” she says with a soft laugh. “Always climbing trees, catching frogs, trying to keep up with my brother and his friends. My father used to despair over the fact that I never did what I was supposed to—but honestly, that’s probably on him. I grew up on the circuit. If it wasn’t events, it was training sessions.” Her smile fades a little. “Things didn’t really get weird until my designation came in.”
The wistfulness in her voice shifts into sadness, maybe even regret. Without thinking, I reach across the table and give her hand a gentle squeeze.
“It’s not fair,” I say quietly. “The world isn’t always kind to Omegas.”
The words catch her off guard; I see it in the flicker of her eyes before her shoulders ease, just a little. It feels too intimate all of a sudden, the way she’s looking at me, so I break eye contact, pretending to focus on the bar around us.
I take a long pull of my beer. We’re definitely front and center here—no surprise, considering Marshal’s PR team blasted the announcement about Pack McCrae’s new courtship all over social media.
When I glance back, her fingers are drumming against her glass, her foot still moving under the table, her body swaying just slightly to the rhythm. I grin.
“You know, you’ve been tapping your foot since we sat down.”
She looks down, surprised, like she hadn’t realized she was doing it. “Oh. Sorry. I just—the music’s good.”
“Then why are we sitting?” I stand and offer her my hand. “Dance with me. You know, for fake dating credibility.”
She looks at my hand, then at the crowded dance floor, and I can see the war on her face. The part that wants to say no, to stay safe, to keep her walls up. And the part that’s loosened by atmosphere and good conversation, and maybe even starting to trust me.
“Okay,” she says, and puts her hand in mine.
FOURTEEN
willa
Baby: You better be wearing something that shows some leg.
Josie: BABY! Be nice!
Baby: I AM being nice. I’m helping. Willa, honey, RELAX. It’s just a date.
