Page 32 of All That Glitters

“Does this sound like country two-step music?” she asks with a laugh.

The heavy bass thrumming through the bottom of my Doc Martens answers with a negative. Paisley’s hands go above her head, the bracelets she’s wearing sliding down her wrist. She looks like she belongs on stage at the Country Music Awards with her big curls, sparkly dress, and pink cowboy boots. Her hands lower and she grasps mine to spin me in a circle like we’re little kids. I laugh, starting to feel a little lighter. Maybe tonight won’t be so bad after all.

Paisley gasps and halts our spinning. I blink as my eyes adjust.

“A cowboy!” she squeals while staring over my shoulder. “I think I found my man.”

I turn around to search out who she’s talking about. Sure enough, a tall muscular guy in a cowboy hat just walked in. His head tips up, and I recognize that wicked smirk immediately.

“That’s Nash, Jameson’s friend. He’s on the hockey team,” I tell her.

Paisley frowns. “Now I feel like I have to hate him on principle.”

I laugh. “No, you don’t. He’s a good guy. A bit of a rake, but—” I shrug.

“Well, if you don’t care, then I’m going to go say hi.”

I wave her toward him. She disappears into the crowd, giggling the whole time. Once she’s gone, I start to feel awkward in the middle of the makeshift dance floor. I’m about to turn and head back to the corner I was camped out in when I spot Jameson. He must have come in right behind Nash.

My whole body freezes at the sight of him. He’s wearing a forest-green cable-knit sweater that makes him look like he’s got a trust fund waiting for him once he graduates. But his tousled black hair gives him an edge that hints at something dark and mysterious in his past. None of which is true, but the look makes my heart quicken nonetheless.

For the past few months, I’ve accidentally written Jameson into whatever book I was working on. And based on the way he looks tonight, I’m doomed to do it again. I can’t resist a brooding male main character.

Jameson’s gaze sweeps the party, as though he’s looking for someone. He finds me in the crowd, smirks, and begins to carve a path through the throng of students. I don’t move. I don’t think I can. He stalks toward me with a kind of purpose that turns me to stone.

When he finally stops in front of me, I have to tip my head back to meet his dark brown eyes. As I do, the song changes to something slower, with a suspicious country twang that has Paisley written all over it.

“You hate parties,” I say instead of hello.

His lips tug up at the corners.

“So do you.”

I shrug. “I came for research.”

Why did you come? I want to ask, but hold back.

“Where’s your little notebook?” he asks, his gaze rolling over me. His eyes linger a little too long, and my skin heats at the thought of him admiring me.

I push away the errant thought and pull my notebook out of my pocket.

“I forgot my pen, though, and Paisley says normal people don’t bring writing materials to frat parties.”

Jameson chuckles and reaches into his back pocket. He produces a silver metal pen.

“Writers aren’t normal,” he says by way of explanation, then holds it out to me. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Goldie.”

My stomach swoops at the low, raspy way he says my nickname. The one I should remind him not to call me. I take the pen from him, our hands brushing in a way that sends tingles up my arm.

“Thanks,” I say softly.

Our eyes lock, and my lungs constrict.

I miss him on a level I never thought I could miss a person. If my heart was a house, every photo on the walls would have Jameson in them. So it makes sense that in the wake of all that’s happened, I feel like I’ve been evicted from my home. I’m worried this feeling won’t ever go away. That twenty years from now I’ll be putting up new photos and still thinking of old ones of us.

Jameson’s lips part, but he’s cut off.

“Red, your friend is crazy,” Nash says, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “I might need you to protect me.”