Maeve sighed, knowing that refusal again would just cause more of a furor, and took a reluctant step forward.
When he saw it, Brodie docked the mic and jumped down off the stage to meet her, eyes glinting in triumph.
“Don’t,” Maeve warned.
“I never would,” he replied, any attempt to rein in his self-satisfied smile clearly failing.
“I’m only doing it because there would be too much attention otherwise.”
“Of course,” he replied, wrapping his arm round her waist and drawing her close toward him. She put her hand reluctantly on his shoulder and he laughed at her obvious hesitancy. “It’s only dancing, Maeve.”
He took her other hand and clasped it with his, their cool palms together, their bodies a whisper away, his head dipping just a little bit to look her in the eye.
Maeve feared her cheeks were apple-red and her heart might literally be thumping out of her body. It wasn’tonly dancing.
Brodie looked down at her with that satisfied, cat-that-got-the-cream look still on his face.
The band played on behind them. “How was Vegas?” she asked.
“Same as Vegas always is.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“To be honest,” he said, “I spent most of the time thinking about coming back here to see you and Zoey.”
“You did not!” She bashed his chest. He caught her hand, clamped it in his, held it flat against his shirt. “I did,” he said, seriously.
Maeve suddenly felt like she was somewhere miles away from the Redemption River Fair, maybe back at the cabin, or further back than that, maybe in that front row at Stanford Stadium, knowing the exact moment his eyes locked on hers as he was performing. The same lazy grin on his face as when she and Piper went with Ethan backstage and Brodie was standing drinking a bottle of water, his eyes clocking her as she came in. The unhurried way he screwed the cap back on the bottle, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and, swiping the sweat off his face with a towel, sauntered over like he had all the time in the world. Seeming to know in that moment, that Maeve would be going with him that night.
Being in his arms again so close, so aware of everywhere their bodies touched, the glint in his eye, the dip of his mouth, was a dangerous reminder of the last time.
“You smell the same,” he said, quietly in her ear.
She tried to keep her face neutral.
“Like warm evenings.” He paused. “Maybe jasmine?”
She kept her eyes fixed on the knot in his tie, the fine gray line of thread in the black fabric. “I think it’s probably just shampoo.”
He laughed at her attempts to make it all very normal. “I can still picture those silver boots, you know? And a little black top?” He asked it as a question, but he seemed certain.
“I don’t remember,” she lied.
“Your hair was different, though,” he went on regardless, letting go of her hand for a moment to touch where the end of her braid rested on her collarbone. “Shorter like a little pixie.”
Maeve swallowed. She couldn’t fall for this again.
“I won’t lie, Maeve, I don’t remember everyone,” he said. “But I remember quite a few. I remember the ones I wish I’d seen again.”
“Brodie, I know you say that to everyone.”
He shook his head, said plainly, “No.”
She kept telling herself not to look at him. Not to meet his eyes.
“I bet you remember what I was wearing,” he said. She heard the jokey smile in his voice.
Blue jeans, navy T-shirt, white and red Nikes.
