I stare at it. At the calluses on his palm. At the veins that run up the inside of his wrist and disappear under the rolled sleeve of his flannel.
“You want to dance with me?” I ask like an idiot.
“Yes,” he confirms.
What is happening? This is not the angry father who berated me two days ago. The entitled founding-family cowboy who bulldozed over me with his assumptions and arrogance.
“I’d rather keep my toes intact, thanks,” I say, defaulting to sarcasm. It’s safer than whatever else is trying to claw out of my chest and say yes. A smart mouth should save me from doing something stupid like taking his hand.
He smirks now. Full-on cocky cowboy grin. “I’ll have you know, Miss Rose, that I’m an excellent dancer.”
I raise my eyebrows, skeptical. “Is that so?”
“You don’t believe me?”
A new song starts—high energy, quick tempo, with a driving beat.
Without warning, Ryder steps backward, dancing, claiming the space that had cleared around the fighters for himself.
He shuffles across the floor in a choreographed line dance, boots scraping against the wood in a rhythm that matches the music.
I’m frozen, staring. My jaw hits the ground. Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Ryder’s hips sway. His body flows into the choreography—heel, toe, kick, turn—grapevine steps that carry him in intricate combinations that make his feet blur, a spin that brings him to face me, then away again. His shoulders bounce as the blue flannel stretches across his back, and those fitted jeans…
I should look away. I really should.
I absolutely don’t.
I’ve never seen anything sexier in my life.
He slaps his thighs in sync with the music. Claps twice.
A wider circle clears around him, dancers stepping back to give him space, and he owns it without self-consciousness or hesitation. He’s pure, unfiltered confidence. His hair falls forward despite the product holding it in place, one strand dropping over his forehead, and he flicks his head to clear it without missing a beat.
I’m hypnotized.
“Oh my gosh.” Rebecca walks up to me. “Someone told me my brother was putting on a solo performance, and I had to come see if he’d been body-snatched.” She thrusts her drink at me. “Hold this.” I take it automatically, still watching Ryder as Rebecca adds, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
She hops onto the dance floor next to him, falling into step with the complicated choreography.
Ten seconds later, another man with Evans-brown hair—a shade darker, but with the same angular jaw and lean build—slides in on Rebecca’s other side.
The three Evans siblings move in perfect synchronization, and the crowd goes wild.
The routine snakes across the floor, full of spins that would wreck my ankles and direction shifts that demand more coordination than I have. They rotate through positions, Ryder in the center, then Rebecca, then the younger brother, never fumbling the steps. Hand claps, hip swivels, quick turns.
Everyone else has stopped dancing. The floor clears wider, giving them more room to perform. People cheer and clap along to the beat, whistling and shouting encouragement.
I wish I could say I’m watching all three of them, appreciating the ensemble performance.
But Ryder steals my focus and holds it captive with each roll of his hips and the booty wiggles that should be ridiculous but are unapologetically sensual instead.
He’s staring right back at me when he’s not busy turning or executing some complicated footwork. Every time his face is in my direction, his eyes find mine. They hold and burn.
Now I understand those nature documentaries about mating dances. The elaborate displays of prowess meant to attract a partner. Because that’s what this feels like. Like he’s dancing for me. To prove what, I’m not sure.
Why is he doing this? What made him assume, after our last interaction, that it was even vaguely okay to flirt with me? He is flirting, right?
