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“Ma’am, may I have this dance?”

I looked into the eyes of what appeared to be a real cowboy, or at least a rancher. Mid-thirties, big belt buckle, and scuffed boots that told me he did more than just hang out at bars and pretend to be a cowboy.

“Sure.” I had to force myself not to look over at Grant to see if he’d noticed. Instead, I gave the cowboy my hand and let him pull me into the middle of the dance floor.

Pastor Robbins walked us through it from the stage. Quick-quick, slow, slow. The cowboy’s hand landed politely on my shoulder blade, mine on his upper arm, our other hands joined out to the side. We set off counterclockwise around the floor with everybody else.

At every rotation, I spotted Grant at the end of the bar with a beer in his hand, watching the floor, his jaw set. Watching me? I wasn’t sure.

The song ended. The cowboy thanked me with a much obliged like it was 1953. Before I could follow him off the dance floor, Grant appeared by my side.

“Next one’s mine,” Grant said.

“You sure? Jack will see you.” It came out bitter and cold.

“I know.”

I should have said no, but really, self-control when it came to Grant Walker wasn’t exactly my strong suit. I gave him my hand just as the opening notes to Neon Moon began. This Pastor Robbins, who moonlighted as a dance teacher, really knew how to play a jukebox.

Grant put his right hand flat against my back. I could smell his aftershave, citrusy with a note of cedar. He was a good dancer too. His frame was perfect, his steps sure.

Neither of us spoke for a while, his hand warm through my cashmere sweater. I didn’t want the song to end, but of course it did. To my surprise, Grant didn’t let me go. We danced to four songs in a row before I asked for a break. “I want a drink,” I said.

“Sure.”

He led me off the dance floor and toward the bar. On the way, I noticed Jack and Ivy, all wrapped up together, swaying to the music. I caught my brother’s gaze. He held it for a second or two, but, for the life of me, I had no idea what he was thinking.

Grant and I perched on bar stools and ordered beers.

“You okay?” Grant asked as the bartender poured us two pints of a local IPA.

“Not really. You?”

“Didn’t sleep last night.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, thinking about how hard I’d cried after he’d left and hating him a little for it.

“Not your fault.”

“What are we doing?”

He rested his forehead against the palm of his hand. “I have no idea. I’m drowning here.”

“Drowning. That’s an interesting way to put it.”

“You’re mad,” he said. “I can hear it.”

“Yep. Why did you ask me to dance? I thought you were so worried about what Jack would think and then you …” I trailed off, uncertain what I wanted to say.

“Because I can’t stop myself. It’s like putting a bet on a horse you know’s going to lose. Like a big bet. All your savings. Everything you have. Even though you know you’re going to lose it all because of one foolish decision.”

“One foolish decision? Wow,” I said.

“That’s not what I meant,” Grant said.

Jack and Ivy approached, all flushed and happy and in love. I kind of hated them a little too. Because apparently I was nothing but a foolish decision.

I had to get out of there.