Page 19 of Cowboys & Hot Sauce
"I just asked nicely," she replied with a wink.
"And here I've been trying the wrong approach all these years," Rhett laughed, nudging my shoulder.
Before he could continue teasing us, I spotted Grayson and Paige making their way over. Rhett followed my gaze and waved them toward us.
"Look who else showed up," he called to them. "Turns out Burke does know how to have fun."
Grayson approached with Paige beside him. My oldest brother wore his usual serious expression, though his gaze held genuine warmth. Beside him, Paige looked radiant in her floral dress, her wedding ring catching the light as she gestured animatedly.
"It's good to see you back in Sweetwater," Grayson said, clasping Scarlet's hand. "Rhett mentioned you two have been seeing each other."
The pride in his voice made guilt twist in my stomach. Grayson had always been my measuring stick—the brother I most wanted to make proud. Lying to him, even by omission, felt wrong.
"Burke's been wonderful," Scarlet said, squeezing my hand. "I'm lucky he was willing to give me a second chance after I left town."
The conviction in her voice caught me off guard. She'd always been good at improvising, but something in her tone made me wonder if there was truth mixed with the performance.
"Well, I think it's fantastic," Paige added warmly. "Burke deserves someone special." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "He's always been my favorite brother-in-law."
Rhett clutched his chest in mock hurt. "I'm standing right here, Paige. You wound me deeply."
"The truth hurts," Grayson chuckled, clapping Rhett on the shoulder. "Though Weston might have something to say about this ranking system too."
"That reminds me," I said, scanning the room. "Is he back from Dallas yet?"
"Not yet. He’s still there with Shelby for that dog show," Grayson replied. "They should be back Monday." He clapped me on the shoulder. "But enough about that—you two should grab some food before the dancing starts in earnest."
The potluck tables were crowded with Sweetwater's summer evening favorites—a taco bar with grilled fajita meat, cold shredded chicken, and all the fixings spread across three tables. Several electric cookers held queso dip that stayed constantly warm, while stacks of soft and crispy tortillas sat in covered warming trays. Bowls of homemade guacamole, fresh pico de gallo, and at least four varieties of salsa—from mild to "approach with caution"—gave everyone options. The dessert table featured a collection of no-bake treats that had been prepared without heating up kitchens in the August heat—icebox pies, chocolate-dipped strawberries, and chilled Key lime squares. Gallon tubs of Blue Bell ice cream nestled in ice provided the perfect cool finish to the warm evening meal.
Scarlet filled her plate with a little of everything, her face lighting up at each new discovery. "I'd forgotten how amazing community potlucks are," she said. "Everything homemade, everyone trying to outdo each other."
"Small town arithmetic at its finest," I agreed, leading her to a free hay bale where we could sit. "Maximum food with minimum effort for any one person."
We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the barn filling with more people as the band finished setting up. I caught Scarlet watching the dance floor, her boot tapping in time with the music as the band started their first number.
"Do you want to dance?" I asked, surprising myself with the offer.
Her gaze met mine, curiosity evident. "I didn't take you for the dancing type."
"I contain multitudes," I said, setting aside my empty plate and offering my hand. "Though I should warn you—I'm better with spreadsheets than two-steps."
The dance floor was already crowded when we joined. The band played an upbeat country tune, and all around us, couples twirled and stepped in time with the music, their movements familiar after years of Saturday nights just like this one. Beside me, Scarlet swayed with the beat, her hips finding the rhythm instantly while I counted silently in my head, trying to remember which foot went where.
"Relax," she said, stepping closer to guide my hand to the small of her back. "Dancing is like cooking—you need to feel it, not overthink it."
"That explains why I'm better at eating than cooking," I replied, earning another of her full-bodied laughs.
Gradually, I let her lead, my focus narrowing to the points where our bodies connected—my hand at her waist, her fingers tangled with mine. With each song, the tension in my shoulders eased, until I found myself actually enjoying the movement.
Then the band shifted to a slower melody, and couples around us drew closer. Scarlet's expression held a question as the first notes filled the air.
"We don't have to—" she began.
"I want to," I said quietly, drawing her into the proper frame for a slow dance.
She settled against me, her cheek resting lightly on my chest. We drifted across the floor with the melody, and I found myself forgetting to count steps or worry about where to place my feet. For those few minutes, it was just us moving together like we'd been dancing for years.
"Burke," she murmured, her voice barely audible above the music.
