If possible, my question sharpens his scowl even further.
This is not the Dallas I know. The Dallas who’s been my best friend for going on twenty-five years now doesn’t scowl. Well, unless it’s at one of his brothers—or any of my shitty-ass boyfriends.
No. The Dallas I know is as carefree as they come and never met a situation he couldn’t laugh off or a problem he couldn’t solve with a cold beer and an out-of-tune rendition of a Willie Nelson song.
“Never you mind.” His aggravated tone is lined with more gravel than the drive beneath us.
I blink rapidly, my eyes struggling to focus on the words spelled out in blue ink on the nearly shredded tissue beneath his finger. And there it is…
“I, Shelby Melissa Sweet, do solemnly swear that if I am not in a serious and fulfilling relationship by the decrepit old age of forty, I will marry Dallas Beaufort Gamble.”
The words are written in the familiar messy scrawl of my best friend, but the neatly curved signature at the bottom is undeniably mine.
When I reach for the napkin, Dallas allows me to pick it up, only releasing his hold when the paper is secure in my hands.I flip it over with gentle fingers, the single word and signature on the back causing a quiet huff of laughter to bubble from my throat.
“Ditto.
Dallas Beaufort Gamble”
“Don’t matter where I got it. The point is that I have it, andyousigned it,” he inexplicably continues.
My eyes flash to Dallas’s, expecting the return of his usual eye twinkle now that he’s played his joke in what was surely an attempt to distract me from my Shane troubles. He must have found this napkin in some random drawer and was saving it for a rainy day to bust my chops.
But, to my surprise and not a small degree of dismay, there’s nary a twinkle in sight—just the same simmering irritation. And something else I can’t for the life of me identify.
The only possible response in the face of this absurdity is a sweeping eye roll. “Very funny.” I pat one of his pecs and hand back the napkin as I skirt around him, intent on reaching the house and the armor of familiar faces waiting inside. I really hope Meemaw made fried chicken.
But Dallas is too quick, one of his muscular arms snaking out to snag me around the waist and pull me close enough that I have to strain my neck to look up at him. He smells like wood shavings and sweat. “This ain’t no joke, Sweetness.” His voice is quiet now, but no less intense, as his golden-eyed gaze skips across my features.
What in the hell is he playing at here? If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s looking at me like he’s…hungry. And not for fried fuckin’ chicken.
A familiar flush begins creeping up my chest, but I tamp that bitch down.
Nope.
Sure, there was a time when I harbored a crush on my bestie like every other girl in our high school—and probably some of their moms if we’re being honest. But I’ve always prided myself on my intelligence and practicality, and it didn’t take long to recognize that Dallas Gamble and his flirty winks spelled nothing but heartbreak. Just like my momma said.
Not to mention he’s the furthest thing from my type.
I used to joke that we were friends because I was the only woman in Big Knob who didn’t want to sleep with him. That, and we’re both members of the unofficial Dead Moms Club.
But our friendship works because we get each other. We fit. He helps me cut loose and fly my freak flag when I need it, but he also instinctively knows when peace and quiet and a strong shoulder are the only things that will keep me upright.
In turn, I prevent him from ending up in jail or a fistfight, and I give him the space to just be himself and not have to be the life of the party or the “fun twin” all the time. Maybe most importantly, I don’t take his flirting as anything more than it is. Casual instinct.
Which is why Dallas Gamble calling me Sweetness never sparks the least reaction in my ovaries like it might a more naïve—or self-delusional—woman.
“Chow time!” Frankie’s voice shatters the weird-as-hell tension like a sledgehammer to an egg, and Dallas’s arm drops from my waist.
I stumble back on a boot and clear my throat before shouting toward the house, “Be right there!” Then I haul ass to the porch, giving Dallas a wide berth so he can’t rope me back into his circle of intensity.
Today is not the day for flirting—nor is it the day for pulling out some marriage contract from eighteen years ago that we both signed while drunk and nursing a couple of half-broken hearts.
And just when I wrap my fingers around the screen door handle, thinking I’ve escaped the bizarreness of the evening, my best friend’s voice calls from behind, “We’re not done talking about this, just so you know!”
Fan-freakin’-tastic.
“Pass the potatoes, would you, darlin’?” Pops asks thirty minutes later as I set my iced tea down next to my empty plate.
