Page 6 of Devil in Disguise
She said, “All right. That’s hotter.”
“Yeah. It is.” He was never going to make it through this night. “Still down for it?”
“I guess. But so you know? I was more thinking about breaking my nineteen-year drought. I can’t wait any more, Owen.” That was some big blue eyes, and a little pleading, too. Worked for him.
“Trust me,” he said. “Stuff’s going to happen. This’ll make it better.”
4
Redneck Rodeo
If only theshadows weren’t so purple, the sky so streaked with red. If only the moon weren’t coming up over the mountains. If only Owen weren’t so big and strong and impossibly coordinated, and he didn’t make it so easy, coaching her, teasing her, spinning her so effortlessly that she felt like she actuallycoulddance. If only the cowboy boots didn’t feel so genuine, making her feel like she fit with him, in his own hat and boots, in a way she’d never fit in Wild Horse in her life. Making her feel like she could ride a horse and dance in a bar and drive a man crazy with her powerful femininity.
Yeah. Not so much. She wasn’t romantic. She wasn’t girly. She was logical, and she was too smart and mouthy and way too intimidating for most guys. For almostanyguy, if she were honest.
But she wasn’t intimidating to Owen, and she was havingfun.She was going someplace she’d never gone before, or only when she was caught up in the perfect symmetry of mathematics, solving an equation, feeling the tumblers click into place. All the way focused. All the way here.
That was before he started the music. After that, she was laughing and messing up and having him catch her in his arms, twirl her again, and get her settled opposite him to start over. He wasn’t pulling her close, but she was so aware of him, and moving in such synchronicity with him, it felt like her heart was beating with his.
Another song, now, and he said, “This is a fast one. Get ready to move.”
Itwasfast, the drumbeat driving the guitars, the guy singing like the whole thing was nothing but funny. A song about a pretty girl in a little tank top pressed up close to the guy in the front seat, about driving too fast, because her dad was coming after both of them with his shotgun. About dancing too close, his hand dipping too low, lost in the music and the lights and the night, until somebody else made a move on her, he punched the guy in the face, and they both had to run out of there fast. About how the night should have ended before they got into even more trouble, but how he had to take the chance again, because he couldn’t resist her, and he was too carried away.
It was all the way out of her comfort zone, the kind of twangy music she’d always hated, the kind of redneck humor she’d always mocked. She was going to be a different person than that, she’d vowed. Anurbanperson. Anurbaneperson. She’d loved that word when she’d discovered it. Smooth and sleek and effortlessly composed and confident.
And still Owen twirled her, then twirled her again, until she was dizzy. Her feet moving in little steps, quick and light, his hand so strong around hers, his arm impossibly sure, like the thought of the movement was going from his body into hers.
Until she got too close to the edge in the darkness and stumbled, then tripped over the raised edge of the dock and started to fall backward, the shock of it taking her breath, aware in that split second that she was about to hit the cold water.
She didn’t. He still had his hand on her waist, and he was keeping his balance, somehow, grabbing her tighter, pulling her back again almost before her heart could start beating faster.
“Whoops,” he said, a laugh in his voice. “Sorry.”
“My … fault,” she managed to say. “New boots. Or just clumsy.”
“Nope. Told you. I’m in control of this. My fault.”
That shouldn’t have sounded so good. She didn’t have time to think it through, though, because he was taking her straight into the next song.
Over and over, until she had it. Until she was all the way to that redneck rodeo and staying on the bull. Until she was flying, not thinking about the steps anymore, relaxing into his hands. Swept away on the warm night, on the darkness, on the feel of her cotton skirt twirling high around her bare thighs. Until the song faded into silence without another one starting up again, and he bent her back over his arm in a dip, pulled her up again, twirled her about three more times, then pulled her up against his body.
He didn’t kiss her. He said, “Slow one coming up. You ready?”
She couldn’t even answer for a second. She just felt his warmth, the hardness of his belt buckle against her diaphragm, and finally said, “Yeah.”
He smiled, just a little. It was too dark to tell, really, so maybe she sensed it. He pulled the phone from his back pocket, pressed a button, and said, “Same position as before. Just a little bit closer.”
A plaintive wail of guitar, the kind that got in your heart and squeezed it, and she settled her hand more firmly on his impossibly broad shoulder and waited until he started to dance.
Another spin, hypnotically slow. Another dip, feeling her hair brush over her cheek and her dress slide up her legs. Another dreamy episode of her feet sliding with his, her face pressed into his chest, feeling the beat of his heart.
And hearing the song, because Owen was singing it under his breath like he’d chosen it for this moment. For her. A pretty simple message, and such a sweet one, saying that he’d fallen so hard and so fast for the look in her eyes, for the way she shone. That she looked good in that smile.
The exact same way she felt about him.
She still didn’t like country music. But she liked this. It was all so sweet, it nearly hurt.
She could still feel his heart. Beating fast, surely faster than a professional athlete’s heart should beat. She could feel the rest of him, too. Impossible not to notice. That was a shivery thrill, like when he’d taken her skiing on the second day she’d known him. Looking down that hill, throwing your heart over the edge, and sending your body tumbling after.
