But I don’t. Because I’ve been trying not to think about how she looked hammering that fence post into the dirt like her life depended on it. About the smudge of dirt on her cheek and the stubborn set of her jaw when she squared up against the work.
About how, for the first time since she came back, I almost didn’t hate her. My fingers tightened around the glass, the cool press of it grounding me as something hot and unwelcome bloomed in my chest.
She’s laughing at something Harper says, and that sound, light, warm, completely unfiltered, wraps around the band’s twangy chords like a damn lasso. My chest tightens, and I take another sip of whiskey to burn it down.
Then she sees me.
Her eyes catch mine across the room, just for a second, but it’s enough. There’s a flicker of something behind that guarded gaze. Recognition. Tension. Heat. Maybe a challenge. I raise my glass in a lazy salute, and her lips twitch into the ghost of a smirk before she turns away.
I exhale slow, dragging a hand down my face.
Trouble. That’s what she is. Always has been.
And judging by the sway of her hips as she heads toward the dance floor, she knows it.
A fiddle cuts into the air, sharp and high, and the crowd surges forward. The band kicks into a two-step, 'Dust and Desire,' a crowd favorite that always packs the floor, that gets boots moving. Couples pair off. Laughter bounces off the walls. And me? I stay rooted to my stool, trying not to notice the way Avery spins in Harper’s hands, laughing like she’s light as air. The ranch hands notice my distraction and seize the opportunity to elbow me with their snide remarks how this little city girl has me all twittered.
I wave off their remarks all while trying not move towards her.
Trying, and failing, not to feel the pull.
Because no matter how far I lean into bitterness, or how much I remind myself she doesn’t belong here anymore... there’s a part of me that still wants to ask her to dance.
I don’t plan to get up.
But when Harper winks and nudges Avery toward the bar, towardme,I swear my legs move before I tell them to.
She’s halfway through ordering a drink when I slide in beside her.
"City girls don’t usually drink Shiner Bock," I say, keeping my tone casual. "Trying to impress the locals?"
Avery turns, and damn if her smirk doesn’t light something dangerous in my chest. "No, but clearly it’s working."
Her eyes flash with something between amusement and challenge, and it takes everything I have not to grin. The bartender sets her beer down, and she lifts it with one delicate hand, clinks it against the edge of my glass.
"Truce for one drink?" she asks.
"One," I agree, even though we both know it won’t stop there.
We drink in silence for a moment, the buzz of the bar wrapping around us like smoke. The band launches into another song, slower this time, 'Whiskey Skies' and the crowd shifts, couples swaying, the energy softening.
I glance at the dance floor. Then back at her. "You still remember how to dance?"
She raises a brow. "I remember howyouused to try."
I chuckle, low and rough, and take her beer from her hand, setting it behind us on the bar.
"Come on then. Let’s see if I’ve improved."
Her hand slips into mine, warm and hesitant, and I lead her through the crowd to the edge of the floor. The moment we start moving, everything else fades, the laughter, the clinking of bottles, even the ache that’s lived between us for years. I get a thumbs up from the ranch hands.
She fits against me in a way that’s too easy. Too natural. One hand on my shoulder, the other in mine, her body warm against mine as we sway in slow circles.
Her scent, something sweet and warm, like vanilla and summer nights, curls through my head, makes it hard to think.
"You’re not so bad," she says softly, gaze flicking up to mine.
"You’re surprised?"
