Page 64 of Homebound

I lift my whiskey tumbler, giving him a wink. Good man, I mouth. He salutes me with two fingers before walking away. We Southern gentlemen understand the unspoken rules.

The band settles on stage, and she lifts her empty margarita, dumping a piece of ice into her mouth as she chews violently. “Sure looked like you were hitting it off with the fiddle player. She’s super cute.”

I narrow my eyes. I’m used to her scathing tone, but there’s a murkier edge to her voice this time, and… I think she’s jealous.

My smile explodes, and I start toying with one of her brown curls. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you sounded jealous, Dakota Rae Cutler.”

She flutters her lips, puffing. “Oh, please. I would never stoop so low as to feel jealous of someone. It’s a pointless emotion and never does any good.”

Her retort is too quick to be honest, and I try really fucking hard not to smile at that thought, so I lower my hand beneath the table, tracing my fingers up her bare thigh to the edge of her cotton dress. It’s a risky move, but I’m done playing it safe. I’m finally starting to feel like myself again, being out here with her.

She looks down but doesn’t stop me, and I don’t go further. I just toy with one of the loose white threads of her dress, tugging, unraveling. I can’t believe I’m finally touching her like this, and she’s not pushing me away.

I slip my pinky up her inner thigh.

Her mouth parts on a breath.

“Yeah, but that’s the thing,” I say, leaning closer so my lips brush her cheekbone. “We can’t control how we feel, but you have no reason to feel jealous. I can’t stop staring at you in that pretty little dress. You look beautiful tonight, honey.”

“I’m not jealous,” she huffs, but her breathing is too heavy. Her face too flushed. I think my words hit their mark. “At least, I don’t want to be, and um, thank you,” she adds, toying with the hem of her dress.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my smile zipped up, trailing my nose down the curve of her neck. “Course you’re not, and you’re welcome.”

I press my lips to her temple, letting them linger on her warm skin.

She sucks in a light gasp.

My jeans suddenly feel like they’re constricting every muscle, and all I can think about is taking her home, ripping off that dress, and watching it fall to the floor.

Just being this close to her, I can’t believe how much it turns me on, and based on the flush in her cheeks, I think she’s feeling the same, but she needs a little push. She’s so stuck on our history that she can’t picture our future, and I need her to want this as much as me.

The lead singer speaks into the microphone, and Dakota jumps at the noise. “Alright folks, we’re gonna start off with a cover of ‘Tupelo Honey’ by Van Morrison, so grab your partners and get on out here on the dance floor.”

Saoirse winks at me from the rickety stage, and I try not to look too smug at my perfectly laid plan. The lead singer strums his guitar, and a rugged twang fills the smoky bar as he begins singing.

I set my whiskey on the table and hold out a hand. “Alright, it’s time. Dance with me. It’ll help you loosen up.”

“No,” she grumbles.

“Yes.”

My parents taught me that when a woman says no, she means hell no, but they also taught me that sometimes a stubborn woman is like a mule—she needs a good kick in the ass to move.

And every good Southern gentleman knows when it’s appropriate to give a woman a solid ass-slapping (Hint: 100 percent of the time, it’s in the bedroom).

“Wyatt…” She complains with a groan, chewing her bottom lip as she nervously eyes the couples dancing. “I haven’t danced in years. I’m not good anymore. I’ll just step on your toes.”

I wrap my arm around her tight waist and drag her onto the creaky floor. “Go on and crush all ten of my toes ’cause that wasn’t a question, honey.”

Crush my toes, my fingers, every bone in my body, so long as you don’t crush my heart again.

“Why do you keep calling me honey? Wait,” she says, holding up a finger. “Let me guess, it’s because it’s the color of my eyes?”

“No. That’s not why.” I loop my fingers through hers. “It’s because “Tupelo Honey” is the first song we ever two-stepped to. Now, would you make me the luckiest man in this bar and dance with me, honey?”

And then she smiles, dimples and all. “Okay, summer boy. I’ll dance with you.”

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