She shrugs, a teasing gleam in her eye. "A little." The bar’s warm glow catches the flecks of gold in her eyes, and her fingers tighten briefly in mine, sending a pulse straight up my arm.
I spin her gently, and when she twirls back into my arms, closer than before, our eyes lock. There’s no more teasing. Just heat. Sharp and sudden and far too dangerous.
Her breath hitches. My grip tightens.
And in that moment, I know I’m screwed.
Because it’s not just old memories dancing between us anymore. It’s something new. Something wild.
And I want more.
We step off the dance floor and return to my seat at the bar with Avery following, a little breathless, both of us pretending that didn’t just shake something loose inside us.
"You planning to moonlight as a dance instructor now, or was that just beginner’s luck?" she asks, leaning against the bar beside me, her voice playful.
I chuckle and signal the bartender. "Only if you promise not to sue me for stepping on your toes."
"You didn’t." She arches a brow. "Which surprised me. Though youwerealways good with your hands."
That stops me cold.
I glance at her, and she just smirks, sipping her beer like she didn’t just throw a match into the powder keg between us.
"You always talk like that to the guy who’s fixing your fence?"
"Only when he deserves it." Her grin widens as she spots Harper on the dance with some cowboy.
We fall into a familiar rhythm that feels like old times. I tease her about her rhinestone-studded phone case, and she roasts my worn leather boots. She throws in a dig about my pickup truck being older than Emmy, and I counter with a jab about her city driving and the dent she already left in the ranch gate.
Somewhere between the laughs, our shoulders brush. Once, then again. Neither of us pulls away.
"You know," she says, sliding her gaze to mine, "if you’re trying to make me feel like I don’t belong here… you’re doing a really terrible job."
"Not trying anymore," I murmur.
She blinks at that.
And hell, maybe I am screwed.
Because all of this, this banter, this heat, this slow tug back toward something I thought was dead and buried, is dangerous.
And I want more of it anyway. Maybe because it feels like the only real thing in a world where everything else changed. Or maybe because for all her polish andstubbornness, she's still the girl who once climbed into my truck with a scraped knee and fire in her eyes, and I never really stopped wanting her.
"So what exactlydoyou do with those hands when you’re not fixing fences and spinning unsuspecting women around dance floors?" she asks, one brow arched.
I lean in, slow and smug. "Wouldn’t you like to find out."
She lets out a laugh, low, surprised, and genuinely amused. "You’re flirting with me. Badly, but still."
"I’m rusty," I say with a grin. "Haven’t had much practice since a certain city girl ran off to college and forgot how to use her phone."
She narrows her eyes. "Low blow. I was busy getting a degree."
"In what? Breaking hearts and avoiding calls?"
"Communications," she says with a wink, and damn if I don’t laugh out loud.
There’s something easy about this. Too easy. Like we never skipped all those years of silence.
