Blythe speaks softly to Gage across the room. Most of their conversation is inaudible, but I catch a name as if it floated through the air in my direction and was spoken just for me to hear.
Mesa.
Suddenly, the pieces fit together in my head. She’s no random friend. She and Savannah are very close.
Maybe that fact should deter me, but surely Savannah won’t care. I’ll play nice.
I unwrap the gum and pop it into my mouth with a slow grin at Warren.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I’ve never been one to lie, even to myself, so I’m not sure why I bother playing it off to Warren. The moment Mesa walks back into the room, I’m going to talk to her. He and I both know it.
7
MESA
My walk isn’t completelygraceful as I gingerly follow Savannah back into the main area of the bunkhouse. One wrong move and these minuscule excuses for straps are going to snap right in half.
The thin material I’m wearing leaves little to the imagination. Thankfully, I only have to wear it for a few minutes, and not for the entire wedding night. A luxurious dress like this one could make a girl do things she’d swear she wouldn’t do anymore.
That thought provides me with a perfect example of why I’m cutting myself off from romance for the foreseeable future. One little night of dress-up, and I’m already fantasizing about being swept off my feet like a princess in a pretty pink gown.
Smacking myself would be just plain embarrassing, so I sweep the escaped strands of hair out of my face and level my chin instead.
Warren and Savannah look incredible next to each other, and I smile at them while gently smoothing my hands over my hips. The soft, silky material feels almost as yummy as it looks.
Sure, the petal pink color probably does nothing for my complexion. Red hair and pink hues aren’t the most ideal pairing, but I feel positively radiant in it anyway.
“Youandyou,” the confident silver-haired lady directs. My head snaps up in time to see her eyes fixed on me. “Stand next to each other.”
I look around at first, then point to myself. “Me?”
A shadow blocks the light in my peripheral. A clean, woodsy scent invades my nostrils, and before I can look up, a hand stretches toward me.
A quite large, male hand, I might add.
I should move. Say something. Instead, I stare, eyes lingering on the decoration of thick veins and swirling ink on the underside of his forearm.
Now, that’s art.
The moment I become aware of my ogling, my nose scrunches and I slam my eyes shut.
The man attached to the art exhibit of a forearm speaks up before I can clear my throat and will my voice to function properly.
“Careful. Blythe might ask you to be in the wedding if we look too good next to each other.”
My eyes open again, finally landing on his face. His full lips are tipped up in a smirk, a somehow perfect complement to his teasing, yet relaxed, cadence. The angles of his bone structure are strong and pronounced. His hair is nearly black and is cut close on the sides, while the top is long enough to grab.
To casually style, I mean.
I continue observing him, landing on his piercing gaze. My head tilts. How odd—the fascinating contrast between his eyes that saytrust meand his smirk that saysdon’t.
Glancing down and noticing, once again, the open shirt under his suit jacket makes me press my lips together to tamp down my amusement.
I can’t explain how or why my arm lifts involuntarily in the next few seconds. Without further hesitation, my fingers slip over his, and our palms connect. The chill bumps were expected, to be honest. I can distance myself from relationships, but I can’t control my body’s reaction to touching a man with that much charismatic aura.
“That wouldn’t be so bad,” I say truthfully with a smile. Shit. My flirtatious response was entirely instinctual. The old me is slipping through, and she’d gush over being the girl on this man’s arm at a wedding. “I’m Mesa.”
