Page 29 of Untaming the Cowboy
“I have,” she confirmed, reading the signage. “But it looks like Haven’s Chicks won’t be back till next week. At least the DJ’s solid. Plays a little bit of everything.”
“Yeah, he’s good. I heard you cut up last week. I think the town needs a revisit from the girl who had everybody line dancing.”
“I think so too.”
hey returned to the ranch, the quiet settled heavy again. After supper, she found Luc under the porch light, sleeves rolled, hammer in hand, fixing a rail.
“I need to get off this ranch for a bit,” she said, stepping close enough to smell sawdust and sweat. “Come dance with me.”
He looked up. “Dance?”
“At The Hen House. You owe me a night out.”
“I don’t owe you anything. I think we,” he said automatically.”Besides, I don’t dance.”
“Sure you do,” she teased. “You just forgot how.”
His eyes narrowed, a mix of annoyance and something else. Then he sighed. “You don’t quit, do you?”
“Not when I’m right.”
That earned her a small grin—the kind that hooked at one corner and meant trouble.
The Hen Housewas alive—music thrumming through the floorboards, scent of fried catfish and whiskey hanging thick in the air. The crowd was a mix of ranch hands, locals, and a few familiar faces from Luc’s crew.
“Didn’t think I’d see you here, boss,” one of them joked.
Luc gave a half grin. “Don’t get used to it.”
They ordered food, shared a table, let the noise fill the silence that had lived between them too long. The DJ blended country and R&B, sliding from “Pour Me a Drink” to “Body Like a Back Road” to “The Way You Move.”
When “Texas Hold ’Em” hit the speakers, Dahlia stood, tossing him a look. “C’mon, cowboy. Time to rep your city.”
Luc shook his head, but a smile tugged at his mouth. Then he stood. “All right, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
A laugh escaped her as she met him on the dance floor. Their bodies moved in sync through the steps, before either of themrealized they were. His fingertips grazed her waist, stayed there a second too long.
The music shifted. Amber light pooled around them as Chris Stapleton's "Tennessee Whiskey" spilled through the speakers. All around, couples melted into each other, hands claiming hips, palms settling on shoulders. Dahlia nodded toward the slow-dancing crowd. “You gonna hide now?” she challenged.
His answer was a step that closed the space between them.
His hand found the small of her back, careful, then firmer when she didn’t flinch. She slid one palm up his chest, the other curling behind his neck. They moved without counting, rocking, slipping into a turn inside a turn. Dahlia ground her body closer to him, her hat brim brushing his.
His fingers flexed across her spine. “Keep dancing like that, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice all gravel and heat, “and you’re gonna find out just how much restraint I don’t have.”
Heat crawled up her throat. She inched closer, the muscle in his jaw tightened when her thumb grazed that cleft that had ruined her good sense since he backed into her. She angled her head slightly, lips close enough the warmth of their breaths mixed. “If you didn’t want me near you, cowboy, you shouldn’t have backed into my car.”
Their steps slowed to a gentle sway, his chest solid against hers. The lyric about being as warm as a glass of brandy rolled over them. The air thinned to the size of a kiss.
When he sang the next line, he changed it, whispering against her temple. “You’re as sweet as cherry wine.”
Dahlia looked up. “Did you just say cherry wine?”
“Mmhmm. Just keep dancing.”
So she did. The world narrowed to the cadence between them, the brush of fabric, the pulse in his throat. She could sense the fight in him, the push to hold the line, and the pull to give in.
By the time the song faded, neither had stepped away.
