“Sue me.”
Becky’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, and her smile turns wicked.
“She doesn’t talk about her past. Ever. Even at book club, she deflects personal questions like she’s in witness protection or something. We’ve known each other for eight months, and I still don’t know where she comes from or why she moved here. Faye is very beautiful and mysterious.”
“And great with a spanking paddle,” Remy adds.
Both he and Rebecca dissolve into laughter.
I’ve had enough. I crank the radio to maximum volume, drowning out their cackling.
The Moonshine’s parking lot is packed when we arrive. The bar’s neon sign buzzes and flickers, casting yellow and blue light over the crammed trucks and motorcycles. Music punches past the doors, the Whiskey Wheelers thumping out their signature Americana. The familiar smell of fried food and spilled beer hits me as we walk in, along with the warmth and the press of too many bodies in a confined space.
The band is on the small stage at the back, the lead singer’s voice cutting through the noise with that raw, honest sound that makes me want to drive fast down a back road with the windows rolled down.
Half the space has turned into a dance floor, a churning mass of arms, boots, and hips, dancers moving together or apart, laughing and shouting over the music. Every table is full. And the bar is three-deep with people trying to order drinks.
I scan the crowd, getting my bearings. Not looking for that elaborate twist of blonde hair. Not searching for honey-colored eyes or tight skirts.
Rebecca peels off toward a pack of women clustered near the stage. I search their faces, but Faye isn’t with them.
She’s nowhere.
Not at the bar, not at the high-tops along the wall, not in the cluster of people pressed against the stage. Of course she’s not. She probably changed her mind and went to a gastropub in a bigger town, somewhere with wine tastings, cloth napkins, and jazz music.
Disappointment settles in my gut, which is ridiculous. I should be relieved. This is better. Easier. Now I can enjoy the band without worrying about having my ass handed to me again.
“Beer?” Remy shouts over the music.
I nod, following him to the bar. We shoulder past a loud group until we earn a space against the counter’s scarred wood. The bartender—Dale, who graduated a year ahead of me—nods in recognition and starts pouring before we even order. Two ice-cold Buds from the tap that he slides over to us.
I take mine and follow Remy to a high table on the side that has become available. I lean back against it, elbows propped on the edge, and let my gaze drift over the mass of people again.
“You good?” Remy asks, his attention already drifting to a brunette in cutoff shorts near the pool table.
“Fine.”
“You’re staring at the crowd with sniper-level focus.”
“Just looking around.”
“Sure.” He claps me on the shoulder. “I’m gonna go introduce myself to those ladies. Try not to pine too obviously.”
I shove him off, eyes still fixed on the surging crowd on the dance floor.
And that’s when it happens—almost in slow-motion—the dancers shift and separate, creating a clear line of sight across the floor from me… to her.
That first glance of Faye I get is a kick straight to the groin, because this woman—this fucking vision—looks nothing like the Miss Rose I’ve met, the buttoned-up teacher with the severe bun and pencil skirt.
Her hair is loose. Falling past her shoulders in wheat-gold glossy waves that reach her navel. She looks like a mermaid who walked out of the lake to wreck me.
Her clothes are casual: high-waisted fitted jeans and a plain white T-shirt tucked into the waistband. Ankle boots. Nothing fancy. But on her, the result brings the kind of trouble you don’t recognize until it’s too late to back out clean.
She has her arms up, hands in the air, hips moving to the beat. Her hair is swaying, and she’s laughing at something Lila Callaway said, her head thrown back, the column of her throat exposed.
I straighten up without meaning to.
“What’s gotten into you?” Remy’s back to my side. “You look like a bull ready to charge.”
