Page 3 of Until You

Yeah, we’re not pulling on that thread tonight.

So nameless it is. Because nameless is temporary. Temporary is clean. Temporary is a night that exists in its own little sealed box, no spillover, no aftermath. No one creeping into the space you’ve carefully carved out for yourself.

Temporary doesn’t hurt. It’s hope that hurts. I know that better than most.

I make my way across the bar, weaving through clusters of people, through the low pulse of the music and the warm press of bodies. The smell of beer and fried food permeates the air. The closer I get, the more aware I am that he’s still watching.

Not the way most men watch.

Most men track movement.

This one is looking.

Like he’s already trying to figure out all my secrets.

Too bad for him. I’m not that easy to read.

I stop in front of him, and before he can open his mouth or raise an eyebrow or do anything that gives him the upper hand, I tilt my chin up and say, “What does a girl have to do around here to get a cowboy to ask her to dance?”

One beat.

Two.

Something moves behind his eyes—something that might be amusement, if he were the kind of man who let it show. His gaze drops to the bar floor, then comes back to my face.

“Usually,” he says, slow and measured, “she just has to ask.”

“I’m asking.”

“Sounds more like a complaint than an invitation.”

I laugh before I can stop myself. It surprises me. “Fine.” I hold out my hand. “Will you dance with me?”

He looks at my hand. Takes his time about it. Then he takes it. His hand is warm, rough-palmed. He’s got a grip that’s firm and certain. Then he unfolds himself from the bar to his full height, and I realize, belatedly, that from across the room I had underestimated him.

He is tall and broad. Big in the very best of ways. Especially since I am no dainty flower.

“Hm,” I say, tilting my head back to look at him properly.

One corner of his mouth tips up. “Hm?”

“Nothing,” I say. “You’re just—bigger than you looked from over there.”

“You were watching me from over there.”

“You were watching me back.”

“Fair point.” He tips his head toward the dance floor. “Shall we?”

One hand settles at the small of my back, warm and certain. The other holds mine. We’re not close enough to cause a scene, but close enough that I’m aware of him in a way that has nothing to do with proximity and everything to do with something I don’t have a clean word for.

The song is slow. Of course it is.

“You always stare like that, or am I just special?” I ask.

Up close, his eyes are not quite brown and not quite hazel. Something in between that shifts with the light, and there’s a faint line between his brows like he spends a lot of time thinking before he speaks.

“Depends,” he says. “You always walk up to strangers and accuse them of things?”