Page 29 of This

He glances around us, lights and music coming from the different bars and shops lining the street. They all blend together, but he zeroes in on a horseshoe blinking in neon on the side of a building. “How do you feel about country music?”

“I hate it.”

“Then I’ll have your full attention.” He hooks his arm around me and drags me toward The Maverick.

Peanut shells crunch under our feet as we slink past belt buckles and cowboy hats line-dancing to a song comparing a woman to a cornfield or something. We find a booth in the back corner, and he leaves me to go order at the bar. While he’s gone, I watch the people like I used to in Portland.

The music switches, and the lines morph into couples shuffling across the wooden floor. They spread out enough that I see Dane on the other side. He holds cash up between two fingers, the bartender taking it with a smile. His hair’s grown out, so the front brushes his forehead like the first time we met. I want to remember him holding the door for me the night of graduation. No beanie. His arm grazing mine like he wanted to catch me as I stumbled past.

When he comes back to the booth, he sets my beer down and slides in across the table from me. He sits sideways, his back to the wall and leg up on the seat. “I think the view’s better from over here.”

“Is that so?”

“More cowboys.” He sips his beer and moves mine closer to him when I reach for it. “Come here and see.”

I switch sides, crawling into the booth between his legs. As I settle back against him, he puts his arm across my chest and pushes his nose into my hair.

“See? So much better.” His voice, low and smooth, melts me further into him, and I rest my head on his shoulder as the song changes. Something upbeat that floods the floor with boots, everyone singing along to the part where the music drops out. They dance, I watch, and he grazes his lips over my skin.

“Stay with me when you come back,” he says in my ear. “Tell Keaton you’re staying at her parents’ and her parents whatever the hell you want, just … be with me when you’re there.”

I should take longer to respond. Think it over a few seconds or at least pretend to.

“Okay,” I say.

Dane nuzzles my neck and sighs. “Okay.”

Not long ago, if someonetold me I would voluntarily spend my Saturday night snuggled into a giant comforter in my own personal sanctuary of a room, reading a romance novel, I would have cackled until I couldn’t breathe. But here I am, wine-drunk at two in the morning and only a few chapters away from finishingDarkest Desires.

Ugh. Daphne.

Marco won’t need any more context to know which scene my message refers to.

When my phone buzzes a few minutes later, I expect a catty comment about the voluptuous woman on the page in front of me. Instead, I see a sad yet incredibly sexy puppy-dog face. Dane pouts out his lower lip, his eyes glassy and begging.

Want you.

Two weeks,I text back.

Now.

He sends a shot of his T-shirt on the floor.

Your turn.

Drunk Dane strikes at the perfect time. The empty bottle of red on my nightstand agrees, and suffering the effects of GD Daphne and quaking body parts, I slip off my socks and toss them to the end of the bed, sending him the photographic proof.

Fuck yes,he replies along with a picture of his belt on top of his shirt.

I peel off my tank top and add it to the socks. He hits right back with his jeans, and I shimmy out of my sweatpants. His boxers next. Then my panties.

What now?I text with the last one.

Bra?

Not wearing one.

Prove it.

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