“Andy, you are the love of my life and the father of my children, but I need you to admit you can’t dance worth a lick.” Grace’s soft laugh, full of adoration, hung on the night air.
“I have visual proof that’s a lie.” Next to her, Andy relaxed into his chair, an arm slung behind her. “Our wedding reception video. You loved my dance with my groomsmen.”
“Because your groomsmen made you look good.” Grace gestured between Colt and Wally. “Especially those two. Actually,Coltmade you look good because we know all the Calvert boys can dance.”
“You haven’t seen Chuck try to dance then,” Del muttered. “He looks like an Amish scarecrow with no rhythm.”
“Hey, I helped him look good.” Wally touched his chest with two fingers. “I know how to dance.”
Pete made a pained noise, and Holly bit back a giggle. Definitely not half bad at all.
“Wait.” Andy twisted sideways to pull his phone free. He wagged a finger at Grace. “More recent video proof. Like October-recent. Ashley’s wedding reception. She’s got posts up on–”
“Andy, man, don’t do that to yourself.” Colt propped his elbow on the table and rested his mouth in his palm. “You were halfway wasted and just thought you could dance.”
“Honey, you looked like one of those blow-up wiggly man-blimps they put in front of used car lots.” Gracie patted his knee.
“I am proving you wrong.” Andy gestured at the television hanging in the grill area. “Can I screencast to that?”
“Sure.” Holly waved a hand in permission. Colt groaned and exchanged a glance with Wally.
Wally shook his head. “Anderson, don’t come crying to us when you’re wrong.”
“Pfft. I’m not wrong.” Fiddling with his screen, Andy nudged Gracie’s knee with his. “We should bet something fun on this.”
Lorraine’s laugh flashed bright in the evening, and she snuggled her arm into David’s shoulder. “They sound like us.”
“Except if we were betting on my dancing skills, I’d win the something fun.” David gave her a familiar playfully lascivious wink.
With a pained sniff, Andrea straightened in her chair, next to Scott, who had on his customary bored-with-life expression, the one that had always made Holly feel like a misbehaving four-year-old. Holly caught herself in a half-shake of her head. They might just be perfect for one another.
The television screen came to life with Andy’s social media feed, posts flying as he scrolled to a blonde’s page, her profile pics featuring her in a wedding dress and a bearded guy in a white shirt, khakis and Georgia boots. He clicked on an album, chock full of really amateur wedding shots and tagged photos and videos.
She glimpsed a familiar dark head in the thumbnail for one video, and she cast a quizzical glance at Colt. “Is that you?”
“Yeah.” He coughed into his palm and flicked a finger at Grace. “Ash is Gracie’s cousin. One of the bridesmaids needed a plus one.”
The video launched, a barn reception, lots of Mason jars with candles and fairy lights, hay bales with blankets for seating, and plenty of whoops and hollers blending with the music and chatter. Even with the too-Pinterest-for-words decor choices, the overall vibe was joyful and celebratory.
Leaning on his arm again, Colt chuckled. “Most country wedding I’ve ever been to.”
“Oh, totally.” With a rueful little laugh, Grace nudged his side. “And it’s my family.”
The dancing crowd was large and enthusiastic . . . and Andy did look like a car-lot balloon man, flailing about with a wide grin. He covered his mouth and darted a look at his wife. “I might be wrong.”
She laughed, a pretty, tinkling flow of joy, and hugged herself to his arm. “I love you anyway.”
“Damn, son,” Wally drawled, mouth open, gaze on the screen. “How drunk were you?”
“Pretty damn drunk.”
“In his defense, Gracie and I might be the only sober people there.” Colt shifted, laying an arm along the back of Holly’s chair. Warm cedar drifted about her. Across the table, Scott reached for his cup, a tight, irritable movement.
“They made the punch with homemade moonshine.” Grace’s dimples flashed in a cheeky grin. “Even Grandma was three sheets to the wind.”
Holly relaxed into the curve of Colt’s arm. Onscreen, he danced with his normal long-limbed ease and athleticism, another blonde in a dusky pink bridesmaid dress clinging close to his side in the crowd. He kept her steady when she stumbled, and as the music segued to a slower number, a schmaltzy 80s love ballad, she pressed into him, arms about his neck, absolute lust in the way she gazed up at him.
And, okay, no. That wasnotgreat, watching another woman try to seduce him, even if they hadn’t been anything yet, even if she’d done more than dance with Scott a month ago.
