I hum as my arms wind around his neck. “It’s a good one.”
We dance and Wes sings out of tune in my ear, his hands searing through my flannel, imprinting themselves on my skin like a brand. I don’t want the moment to end, don’t want the band to stop playing. I just want to live in his arms for a while longer. It’s a ridiculous desire. One that shows just how touch starved I am.
Wes’ hands don’t leave me when the song ends. They stay planted on my hips, and all I can think about is how I want him to touch me rougher. Harder. I want to feel his fingertips dig into my flesh. I want the scrape of his beard on my sensitive skin. I want to feel every inch of him pressed against every piece of me.
Wes pulls me away from the crowd after a few more dances, nodding to a few people as we walk past them.
“Where are we going?” I ask once we’re far enough from the speakers to be heard.
“I need another drink.” He keeps hold of my hand, fingers threading through mine like he’s not thinking twice about it, even with an entire town’s prying eyes on us. He orders himself another cider and me, a water, since I’ve met my two-drink limit and drops my hand to grab his wallet and pay.
With our drinks in hand, he glances down at me, and for a moment, I forget to breathe. The gold flecks in his hazel eyes catch the light, smoldering with a heat that's almost tangible. The intensity of his gaze sends a slow, simmering warmth through me.
I take a long sip of my water, hoping to cool the sudden dryness in my throat and follow him through the line of food stands, my pulse thrumming in time with the music around us.
“Even Fall Fest hasn’t changed,” he mumbles into his plastic cup.
“Do you hate that it’s all the same?” I ask, curious.
He looks up at the night sky decorated by tiny pinpricks of light. “No, I don’t hate it. In a way, it's comforting that so little has changed. But being back here feels a little strange. Like I’m a completely different person than I was last time I was here.”
We’re meandering back toward the stage slowly. I’m not sure I want to go back into the crowd yet, so I grab his hand and pull him to a stop near the corn maze entrance.
“Can I ask you something?”
“You just did,” he says, the dimple in his left cheek popping.
I roll my eyes. “You’re not as clever as you think you are.”
“Go ahead and ask. The worst I’ll do is not answer.”
“You haven’t brought up how you had to bail me out of jail.”
He cocks his head to the side, pausing for a beat before saying, “That’s not a question.”
I groan in exasperation. “Why haven’t you brought it up?”
“Was I supposed to?” His brow knots in confusion.
“I figured you’d rub it in my face or tell me how dumb it was or grumble about it more.”
He barks out a laugh. “Honestly, Red? I couldn't care less what you do to some asshole that hurt your friend. Chase deserved it, and you didn’t really destroy his property. You just inconvenienced him a bit. Was it reckless? A bit wild? Yeah. But I think that’s what I like about you.”
“Huh. I didn’t see that coming.” I’d pegged Wes as a guy who would look down on the wild child that still lived inside me. But here he is, telling me he likes it.
Wes finishes his drink and tosses the cup into the trash can. “You’d better buckle up, buttercup. I’m full of surprises.”
Lord have mercy.
“We’re friends or something, aren’t we?” I ask, tucking a stray hair behind my ear.
He studies me. “Or something.”
The way he’s looking at me is nearly obscene, and I can’t help myself when I snag the Stetson off the top of his head and plop it down on my own. “As a friend, or something, I feel obligated to tell you that your singing is absolutely horrendous.”
I’m taunting him with his hat on my head, seeing just how far he’s willing to let this go between us.
We both know the rule. You wear the hat. You ride the cowboy. Well, I’m wearing his hat, and I’m dying to see exactly what Wes Dawson is going to do about it, desperate to find out what other surprises he has up his sleeve tonight.
