Page 1 of The Last Dance You Saved
Chapter One
Sadie
WONDER WOMAN
Performed by Miley Cyrus
As I stepped up to the line, carefully weighted dart in hand, a wild scream from the back of the bar had me glancing over my shoulder to the two burly men chanting my name. Naked from the waist up, they thrust their arms in the air, causing their overflowing bellies withTennessee Darlin’written on them to jiggle. They had bandanas with the Tennessee flag on them tied around their heads, and their cheeks were ruddy from the alcohol they’d happily consumed.
I hid my disbelief by winking at them and then turned back to the dartboard exactly seven feet, nine and a quarter inches away. I hadn’t expected anyone to know me, let alone call my name during this tournament. It’d been a few years since I’d been on the professional dart circuit. The piddly little competitions I’d entered in the last six months were nothing. Locals having a bit of fun. Teenagers trying to dip a foot into the scene. While I’d pulled together some wins in those smaller events, I was still a long way from the old Sadie who’d taken the circuit by storm.
The Marquis Vegas Open was the first time in three years I’d entered an event that might put me back on the Professional Dart Association of America’s charts I’d first ranked on when I was sixteen. I’d moved up consistently while I’d been in college until I’d left the circuit due to the hell that had rained down on me. Hell I was still fighting through.
The smug look on the face of the man standing off to the side, waiting for me to blow it, brought me back from panicked thoughts that might have derailed me. For two days, I’d bitten my tongue and dealt with his ego while I’d let his expression fuel me. It was just like my older brothers when they thought they had me beat. He’d learn, just like they had, that when it came to darts, out of practice or not, I hit the mark when it counted.
My mind narrowed on the distance to the board, focusing on my arm and the dart balanced in my fingers. I rotated my shoulder and my wrist and then let it fly.
I knew as soon as it left my hand where it was going to land. I was already smiling as it arrowed into the required double bed with a soft whoosh. I didn’t need to hear the chalker’s, “Game shot,” to know I’d won, but relief flew through me when I did.
I hadn’t embarrassed myself. I’d proven I could do it again. A lightning bolt of adrenaline raced through my veins, bringing the same wild joy that came from leaping over a stream bareback on a galloping horse. For a handful of seconds, I reveled in it.
Success. Accomplishment. A rub in the face of my smug competitor and all the others who’d whispered I couldn’t come back.
But just as quickly as the lightning had appeared, it sped away, leaving nothing but the singe of ozone in the air and the loneliness of a gray sky. The triumph of the win that I used to live on for days, that wicked sense of glory, was missing.
Behind me, the naked-chested men broke into the lyrics to the Osborne Brothers’ “Rocky Top”—one of Tennessee’s many anthems—and I felt another quick flash of accomplishment. I dug out a piece of my old self enough to dance a little two-step in their direction, and it sent more cheers through the crowd. I curtseyed, and the two shirtless men hollered some more. It was an ego boost, for sure, but fleeting as their cheers came from seeing a shell perform rather than acknowledging the complicated mess that existed inside me.
My competitor stepped up, shook my hand, and said with a chagrinned look, “My manager said not to underestimate theTennessee Darlin’. He said he’d watched tapes of you from back in twenty-three and was certain you were the real deal. I guess he was right.”
“Could have gone either way with that last throw,” I told him truthfully.
“You knew just what you were doing. You stayed cool and collected the entire time. Accept the win. You deserve it.”
Another brief flicker of that old excitement tried to leap into existence but couldn’t quite take hold. As the competitors grabbed their bags and left, I fought a strange urge to cry. Why had the win felt so empty when before it had fueled me for days?
From a hallway leading to the back of the club, a brown-haired man emerged, striding toward me with a confidence that had heads turning. In an expensive suit, fancy shoes polished to a shine, and a lavender dress shirt opened to reveal a hint of tan skin, he exuded a smooth charm. In Las Vegas, it could have come off as smarmy, but instead, he looked like a cover model. An actor. Someone famous who was blessing us with his presence.
Watching him stride toward me, my knees did something they’d never done, even after downing three shots with Willy at my bar back in Willow Creek—they wobbled. Maybe it was the way the man’s focus was completely on me as he approached, or maybe it was simply the intensity of his warm chocolate gaze as he took me in. Either way, a buzz I was unaccustomed to ran down my spine as he stopped beside me.
His chiseled jawline was shadowed by a meticulously clipped beard, one layer past scruff, that emphasized the straight, strong lines of his face. The near perfection was marred only by a slight crook at the top of his nose where it must have been broken and never fixed, but that asymmetry only seemed to add to his sex appeal.
“Miss Hatley, congratulations,” he said. Highly kissable lips curved into a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes but showed off white teeth and a single dimple that made my heart stampede.
He extended a large hand, and as soon as I placed my fingers in his palm, a rush of lightning spun through me again—far stronger than the brief hit of adrenaline I’d felt from the win. This flash was so vivid, so real, I could almost hear thunder rolling and see the summer storm crashing over the hills behind the ranch.
His gaze jerked down to our joined hands as if he’d felt it too, but when he looked back up, his expression was almost blank, as if he’d drawn a curtain down over his emotions.
“Thanks, and you are?” I asked, happy to find my voice was steady even though I was shaking inside. The turbulent pull he caused settled low and warm in my stomach. When was the last time I’d felt this kind of instant attraction for someone? Had I ever felt it this strongly?
His smile turned into a slow, rumbling chuckle, emerging from his broad chest in a way that made the tempest inside me swell another notch. “Rafe Marquess. I sponsored the tournament.”
Before I could respond, a blond woman in a red cocktail dress that clung to generous curves came hurrying over with a large trophy. She slid up next to Rafe, batted her eyes at him, and said, “Here’s the award for the press photo.”
“Thanks, Mindy.”
He didn’t even glance her way. Instead, his gaze remained locked on me, as if he was searching for the answer to a question he hadn’t asked. He handed me the trophy and waved toward a handful of reporters who were waiting for this photo-op moment. Behind the press, the audience had dwindled, but the two men with my nickname on their bellies were still belting out the Osborne Brothers song on repeat.
As we faced the cameras, my shoulder brushed Rafe’s, and tingles slid up my arm and down into my chest. When I was tempted to do something completely embarrassing, like touch him more to see if I could get that buzz to turn into a full-blown flame, I turned my focus to the trophy. It was shaped like the Las Vegas sign and even had a neon strip lighting it up.
