My brain can’t compute.
But if he wanted me to notice him.
Mission frigging accomplished.
Lila bumps her shoulder against mine, leaning in close. “Ryder Evans hasn’t stopped staring at you. Did I miss something?”
“If you did,” I reply, not taking my eyes off him either, “I must’ve missed it too. Because I have no idea what’s happening.”
She sighs, gaze drifting to the younger brother. “Remy has a fantastic ass. Pity he’s such a player. He broke half the hearts in Blue Crescent Harbor.”
I glance at her, catching the wistfulness in her tone. “Do you two have history?”
“No.” Her eyes cloud, and she takes a long sip of her drink. “The only past I have is with a man who stole my heart when I was sixteen and still hasn’t given it back.” Lila shakes off the melancholy, grinning. “Doesn’t mean I can’t admire a great cowboy ass. Or two.” She elbows me gently. “Ryder is the hottest single dad in town.”
That is an unfortunate truth.
The song ends with a flourish of guitar and drums. The three Evans stop, chests heaving from exertion. And the Moonshine erupts in cheers and applause, people whistling and stomping their feet.
Rebecca takes an exaggerated bow. Remy tips an imaginary hat to a group of women who look ready to eat him alive. And Ryder just stands, chest rising and falling, eyes still on me.
The lead singer of Whiskey Wheelers leans into his microphone. “Let’s hear it for the Evans family, y’all! Best damn impromptu backup dancers we’ve ever had!”
Rebecca whoops, throwing her fists in the air. “Still got it!”
Ryder bows his head, acknowledging the applause with a small nod. Then his eyes lift, locking onto mine again.
The lead singer strums a few slower chords on his guitar. “Alright, folks, time to couple up. We’re slowing things down for you lovebirds.”
The opening notes of a slow ballad fill the bar. Bodies press closer together. The energy shifts from wild to intimate.
And Ryder Evans crosses the floor toward me.
My heart hammers against my ribs as he stops in front of me. He extends his hand again, palm up.
“Now that I’ve proven your toes are safe, will you dance with me?”
7
FAYE
I don’t know what possesses me to give Rebecca her drink back and take Ryder’s hand. Temporary insanity? The lingering adrenaline from nearly getting punched? Maybe the sight of him moving across the dance floor, all confident swagger and devastating hip rolls, ruined something critical in my frontal lobe, and I’ve lost the ability to make sensible decisions.
Ryder’s fingers close over mine—sure, proprietary. The warmth of his palm seeps through me like sunlight, turning my blood effervescent.
My already boiling skin scrapes against his rough calluses. These are the hands of a man who builds and fixes and handles heavy things. I’ve only ever had soft hands on me. Fingers that spent most of their time typing at a keyboard. Would I feel the difference? How would those calluses feel on other parts of my body? I suspect sinfully amazing.
The crowd parts as he pulls me deeper onto the dance floor. Bodies shift and reform around us, creating a pocket of space that feels both too public and too intimate.
I already regret this decision. More so when his other hand settles on my hip. His palm is large, fingers splayed protectively across the curve of my waist.
The burning sensation I’ve been experiencing all night rekindles, multiplies; it spreads like a wildfire until I’m certain I’m glowing red-hot in the dim bar lighting.
The space between our bodies is minimal. Less than a foot. Close enough that I could bottle his scent into a new fragrance called Cedar and Muscles.
My brain scrambles for the appropriate protocol. Where do I put my other hand? Shoulder? Bicep? Do I let it dangle at my side like a broken appendage?
I settle for dropping it awkwardly on his shoulder, fingers curling against the soft flannel. Underneath the fabric, his torso is solid—warm and unyielding.
