Page 41 of The Other Side

My mouth and eyes gape in harmony. “Brant Beckett!”

He peers at me through slitted eyes, his head softly wagging from side to side. “Not my finest hour.”

I laugh, my chest pumping with pleasure before I draw another sip of beer. Then I’m jerking a shoulder as my attention lifts to the vintage light fixtures. “I think you just miss being wild and free.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because I miss it,” I admit.

I inhale, my eyes stitching to the worn metal of the chandelier.

“Are you happy with him, Callie?” Brant’s voice is soft and steady. Lined with purpose.

My heart squeezes, knowing the intentions of his question are pure. He’s making sure I’m okay, and I almost wish his inquiry was driven by selfishness.

It’d be so easy for me to kick my defenses into high gear. Be so simple to attack his character and march away from him. It’d make everything that’s happening in our lives right now far less complicated.

But this is Brant.

He’s always been that ray of sunlight in the middle of the storm.

He’s an anomaly.

My breath falters before I let out any words. “We have our differences like any other couple, but we have plenty of great moments. He treats me well.”

Silence commences, throwing a few more jabs at my heart. “That’s good, Callie.”

I want him to use his smart-ass tongue. His curt blessing pools displeasure inside of me, but there’s nowhere for me to drain it.

“I feel like I need another drink, but I think it’s best to knock my usual limit down to one tonight,” I utter.

“A drink doesn’t need to equate to alcohol,” Brant says before calling the bartender over.

He orders two cups of ice water, and then he’s handing a plastic cup to me.

“Thank you,” I say.

There’s a lemon wedge floating with the ice cubes in my drink, and I take a generous gulp of the cold water.

Jimmie Allen’s “Make Me Want To” echoes from the DJ booth at the rear of the bar. My eyes peek over, catching the cluster of people beginning to crowd the reclaimed wood of the cubicle. The DJ’s cowboy hat bounces as his hand connects with the vintage turntables, and then I’m looking at Brant.

Brant’s chin softly jerks with his question. “You like Jimmie Allen?”

A delighted curve traces my lips. “He’s no Brad Paisley, but yeah, I like him.”

Brant’s already on his feet when I deliver the last word. “Let’s go,” he says, offering his palm to me.

My smile grows when I plant my hand in his. The soles of my cowboy boots hit the wood, and my free arm raises as my hips sway to the dance floor.

Brant releases his hold on me before he turns around. His lips move in sync with the lyrics as his hand maneuvers around me to the rhythm. He’s outlining the silhouette of my body, strobe lights flashing above us as we fall in step.

A spark of heat sizzles through me. His fluidity leaves me as speechless as it did when we danced on the hill across from The 1984 Barn. But this time, there’s this lethal swagger about him. Threatening to swallow me whole and spit me out once the sun sets on the evening.

How many women has he danced with like this?

I need more.

I’m always going to need more.