Page 49 of Wild Thorns

"This," he said, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind my ear, "is inevitability."

The word landed in my chest and stayed there, heavy and warm. Inevitability. Like gravity. Like the tide. Like something that had been decided long before either of us had a say.

The music shifted again, faster now, but neither of us sped up. We moved in our own bubble of heat and tension, his body pressed to mine, my body melting into his, every point of contact burning like a fever I didn't want to break.

I was going to do something stupid. I could feel it building, the recklessness, the wanting, the absolute inability to care about consequences when his hands were on me like this and his eyes were looking at me like that.

"Callum," I whispered. I didn't know if it was a warning or an invitation. Maybe both.

His grip tightened. His pupils blew wide, swallowing the dark of his irises until there was nothing but black and gold and hunger.

"I know," he said. "I know."

But he didn't let go.

And I didn't ask him to.

"I'm patient." His mouth brushed my ear as he spoke, and goosebumps rippled down my neck. "I can wait for what I want."

I should have had a clever response. Something dry, something deflecting, something to break the tension building between us like a physical force.

Instead, I heard myself say: "And what do you want?"

His eyes dropped to my crown, the blue ribbon Miss Delphine had woven into something delicate and lovely, and for just a moment, his expression shifted. Opened. Revealed something that looked almost like longing.

"Ask me again sometime," he said. "When we're alone."

The song ended. Callum released me slowly, his hand trailing down my arm until only our fingers touched, then nothing. He stepped back, nodded once, and melted into the crowd with the same silent efficiency he'd used to appear.

I stood in the middle of the dance area, flushed and breathless, my heart pounding against my ribs. Humid in areas that had nothing to do with the southern summer evening air.

These guys were going to be the death of me. One dance. Three starkly different partners, three entirely different ways of holding me, of moving with me, of making me feel like the center of something larger than I understood. Shit, no doubt the whole town had been watching.

The crown on my head felt heavier than it should have. Ribbon and wire and the weight of questions no one would let me finish asking.

The crown of cypress was an old tradition.

For those who will never wear a crown of cypress, this is their day.

I touched the ribbon circling my head and wondered what it would feel like to wear something more permanent. What freedoms would be lost? What responsibilities would that life hold?

Jasper reappeared with lemonade, and the moment passed, and the festival swirled on around me. I filed the question away. Added it to my growing list of things this town didn't want to explain. Crowns of cypress. Trials. Lords and ladies… that would have been a long-ago era indeed.

… And the way all three brothers had looked at the ribbon in my hair, like they were seeing something more.

The light was that specific golden-hour glow that made everything look like it had been designed by someone who understood composition. I found myself mentally framing shots: the red and white bunting against old brick, the string lights just beginning to glow as the sun dipped lower, an elderly couple dancing in front of the stage with the easy intimacy of fifty years together.

“You’re doing that thing,” Jasper said.

“What thing?”

“The thing where you’re composing shots in your head instead of being present.”

“I’m present.”

“You’re mentally photographing the bunting.”

I was, in fact, mentally photographing the bunting. “It’s objectively excellent composition.”