The breath punched out of me. Heat flared low in my belly, spreading upward until even the night air felt too tight. My fingers tightened around my beer bottle, glass slick with sweat. He didn’t look away. Neither did I.
He tipped his head just slightly—barely a movement—but it felt like a summons.
“Ivy?” Maggie’s voice came from somewhere far away, muffled like I was underwater. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I managed, dragging my gaze back to the group. My voice sounded breathless even to me. “Just…hot.”
Sophie smirked, eyes flicking between us. “I’ll bet.”
The band switched to something slower, sweeter—an old George Strait song that turned the night soft around the edges.Louisa and Owen were dancing in the square, her head tucked against his chest, his hand curved around her waist like it belonged there. Forty years, and they still looked at each other like no one else existed.
“Relationship goals,” Sophie murmured.
“They’ve earned it,” Maggie said quietly.
“Wasn’t always easy for them,” Liam added, suddenly appearing beside us, beer in hand. He grinned. “Blackwoods never are. We just love hard, fight loud, and protect what’s ours.”
“Speaking of which,” Sophie said, tilting her head toward the square. “Pretty sure our brother’s about to commit a felony.”
I turned.
Wyatt had straightened from his truck, his whole body coiled tight. His hat was still low, but I could feel the heat in his stare even from here—possessive, frustrated, hungry.
A cowboy I didn’t recognize was moving toward me through the crowd, grinning, clearly about to tap my shoulder.
“Excuse me,” I murmured, already moving before my brain caught up with my feet.
The world seemed to narrow—just the space between us and the drumbeat of boots on hard-packed dirt.
The crowd seemed to part as I moved, or maybe that was just my imagination. The music faded to background noise, the laughter and chatter becoming a distant hum. All I could see was Wyatt, all I could feel was the magnetic pull between us that had never gone away, no matter how many years or miles had separated us.
I stopped just out of arm's reach, close enough to realize he’d put on cologne for tonight. It was something musky and spiced. Something manly that had me wanting to bury my face in his chest and breathe deep.
"Hi," I said brilliantly.
"You look beautiful," he said, his voice rough like he'd been drinking whiskey instead of beer. "That dress..."
I'd worn blue—a sundress that was probably too nice for a street dance, but that I'd bought in Dallas and never had occasionto wear. It made me feel pretty, feminine, desired. The way he was looking at me confirmed all three.
"You clean up nice yourself," I managed.
"Ivy—" he started, then stopped, his hand clenching around his beer bottle.
The band switched songs, the fiddle sliding into something slow and sweet. A waltz, of all things. Couples moved together on the makeshift dance floor, bodies close, the summer night wrapping around them like a blessing.
Wyatt set his beer on his truck hood, then extended his hand. "Dance with me, Ivygirl."
The old nickname, the one only he had ever used, made my breath catch. I hesitated only a heartbeat before sliding my hand into his.
He led me into the crowd of dancers, then pulled me close—closer than friends would dance, closer than taking it slow suggested. One hand splayed across my lower back, the other holding mine against his chest, where I could feel his heartbeat racing to match mine.
We moved together like we'd never stopped dancing, like the fourteen years between our last dance and this one had been a pause, not an ending. My body remembered his—the way we fit, the way he moved, the way his thumb stroked small circles on my back that sent shivers down my spine.
"I've been trying to stay away," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. "Give you space. Let you settle in without pressure."
"I know."
"It's killing me."
