Page 139 of Wild As Her

And then I feel it, like a tug on the back of my spine. I turn and find Jack.

Still leaning. Still watching. Still wrecking me with one goddamn look.

He’s in jeans and a black button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbow, forearms flexing just enough to make me forget what I was doing. His hair’s mussed from the breeze, and the shadows from the fairy lights kiss his cheekbones in a way that feels personal.

“Go talk to him,” Maggie hisses.

I swallow. “I’m not?—”

“He’s been staring at you like he wants to ruin that dress.”

I spin to glare at her. “Would you stop reading my mind?”

“I’d rather read his.”

She winks and shoves a bourbon lemonade into my hand. “Liquid courage, baby.”

I take a sip. It’s too strong. It’s perfect.

Across the yard, Weston is tossing bean bags at a cornhole board with a country singer from Red Records who might’vewon a Grammy. Tucker’s perched on a cooler nearby, flirting with a backup singer wearing boots and a barely-there dress. Walker and Violet slow dance near the dock, her in his arms like something out of a romantic movie.

The music softens again, turns smokier.

And suddenly, Jack’s there. Like he stepped out of the shadows and directly into my bloodstream.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just takes the drink from my hand and sets it on a nearby table. His fingers brush mine. Sparks.

Then, with that deep, velvet voice, he says, “Dance with me.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

“Do it anyway. The last time you danced with me was Homecoming. You were seventeen, and you spilled Coke on my boots.”

“You kissed me behind the bleachers.”

“And I haven’t wanted to kiss anyone else since.”

That shuts me up. I’ve thought about that night and that kiss more times than I will ever admit to anyone.

He holds out a hand. I take it.

The wooden stage creaks under our weight as he leads me to the edge, where fairy lights glint off the lake like a mirror full of stars. The music plays on, slow and sexy and meant for trouble. Jack pulls me close, one hand sliding around my waist, the other gripping my hand like he won’t let go even if the world ends.

“Did you do this on purpose?” he murmurs.

“What?”

“This dress. That look in your eye.”

“You think this is for you?” I tease as I smile at him, not able to hold it back.

He leans in. “Ihopeit is.”

I hate how much I melt. Hate how my knees feel like they might go out if he says one more thing in that voice.

“I’m still going to give you hell,” I say, trying to be brave.

“I know,” he murmurs, pulling me closer.

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