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"Don't start."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

I glanced toward the dance floor. Couples swayed beneath hundreds of white lights strung between towering oak trees. Beyond the reception area, the rolling hills of Lockhart Ranch disappeared into the darkness.

The barn glowed. The air smelled like fresh-cut grass, barbecue, and the blush roses I’d managed to secure.

It was beautiful. Annoyingly beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made a woman question why she lived in a city where the closest thing to nature was a ficus in her office lobby.

And under normal circumstances, I might have let Damon drag me onto that dance floor. We'd already done our share of line dancing, after all. Which had been a mistake. Not because he couldn't dance. He could.

Quite well.

The mistake had been discovering just how much fun I could have with Damon Lockhart when I stopped worrying about what everyone else thought. A dangerous discovery. One I had no intention of repeating while my defenses were weakened by champagne and exhaustion.

"Are you sure I can’t tempt you, sweetheart? Not even one dance.”

Those were two different questions. Yes, he absolutely could tempt me. And no, not even one dance.

"I don't have a dance in me." It was mostly true. I was tired. I was also scared of being in his arms in front of a room full of my relatives. I didn’t want them to read more into it than there was, and I didn’t trust my face not to reveal things I’d rather keep hidden. Like feelings.

He studied me for a moment then lowered his outstretched hand to his side. "Okay."

I blinked. "Okay?"

"Okay."

"That's it?"

"What were you expecting? A formal appeal? A PowerPoint presentation?"

"From you? No. Never."

He grinned. "I do have a compelling argument prepared."

"Of course you do."

"But if you're tired, you're tired."

And that was the problem with Damon Lockhart. He was supposed to be easy to dismiss. A charming cowboy with a reputation for breaking hearts and collecting phone numbers. A walking, talking cautionary tale with excellent bone structure.

But then he'd go and do something considerate. Something that made it harder to remember all the reasons he was a terrible idea.

"You're really not going to argue?" I asked.

"Would it help?"

"No."

"Then I'm saving my energy."

"For what?"

His smile turned wicked and he wagged his brow.

I rolled my eyes. "You're impossible."

"So I've been told."