He’s not wrong.
I still hate it.
“You can stay home,” he adds, too casual. “Tell everybody you’re too chicken to two-step with me. I’ll do recon alone.”
My narrowed eyes say I see what he’s doing.
His mouth curves like,yeah, you caught me, but are you really going to let me show up at the Eager Beaver solo and let the rumor mill fill in the blanks?
I throw my dishtowel on the counter. “Fine. But if someone requests ‘Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy),’ I’m setting the jukebox on fire.”
“Deal,” he says, way too fast.
The Eager Beaveris exactly the same and completely different.
Same neon beer signs buzzing faintly. Same wooden dance floor polished by a thousand boots. Same bar where I had my first legal drink and my last illegal one. The air smells like spilled beer, perfume, and nostalgia.
Different me.
Different him.
The moment we step inside, the hum of conversation shifts. Heads turn. Music keeps pounding, but the air around us sharpens like we’re the interesting part of the show now.
Nash’s hand finds mine. He threads our fingers together like he’s been doing it every day for the last ten years. The contact is simple. My pulse is not.
“You okay?” he murmurs, low enough that it’s just for me.
“No.”
“Want to turn around?”
“Yes.”
“Gonna?”
“No.”
He squeezes.
We weave through the crowd. The small-town ecosystem rearranges itself around us: ranch hands nodding, old-timers watching like they’re grading us, girls from high school whispering behind their hands with faces that saythank God I left this townand eyes that saytell me everything.
At the bar, we run into the past in skinny jeans and a floral top.
“Delaney Coleman?” Brooke Jenkins blinks at me, then squeals. “Oh my God, you’re actually here.”
“Brooke,” I say, bracing myself. “You look great.”
She does—glowy and happy and three shots in.
She pins Nash next with a stare that could strip paint. “And you’re…”
“Nash,” he says, easy. “Hawthorne.”
Her eyes widen. “No. Way.”
Way.
“Y’all dating?” she blurts, because tact never really got a foothold in this zip code.
