“Okay . . .” I ease back down to my seat with a raised eyebrow.
He spins the chair next to mine so that he can sit the wrong way and lean forward against the back of it. It creaks under his weight. “Name’s Dax.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say flatly.
“I’m not really one for parties.”
“Good to know, Dax.”
“If I’m stuck on my own, that is.” He chuckles and gestures toward the dance floor. “Do you like to dance?”
I think about it while worrying my lip. Sure, I dance sometimes when I’m feeling spontaneous in my flower garden or in the kitchen making desserts—at home where I can play my favorite songs. I might even enjoy the occasional back road slow-dance in the beam of headlights, but that only happens in vivid dreams just before my alarm goes off.
I shrug. “I guess so.” Nothing prompts me to return the question.
“Well, I’m not very good. But how about a dance with me, then?”
My lips part as I study the casual indifference in his voice. There’s no edge to it. Nothing to elicit tingles on my skin.
My eyes linger over the evidence of age on his face. He’s older than me by at least eight years if I had to guess. Maybe ten. In a distinguished way, though. A way that I think most girls would find irresistible or alluring.
The band switches to a slow song, and Dax rises from his chair with an outstretched hand. Has he even asked my name?
My eyes dart to my surroundings, but they’re nothing but a blur of dim lights and faceless people eating, drinking, or dancing.
“Why not,” I say with a shrug.
I place my hand in his, but his palm has an odd thickness to it that prevents it from feeling like he’s truly wrapping his fingers around mine. A functional touch lacking all signs of connection. I don’t like the way it feels, and a pit of regret settles in my stomach as he leads me around the table and toward the dance floor.
“Dax. Thank you for the offer, but?—”
He’s pulling me into his arms and starts swaying back and forth before I even finish my sentence or know where to put my hands. They eventually land on his biceps. God, what the hell has this man been eating? Raw eggs and steak bites dipped in protein shake gravy?
I’m faking a smile, and he’s no sooner smoothed a palm up my spine before someone reaches from behind me and taps him on the shoulder.
33
TRIPP
“That should do it.”I swipe my hands together and admire our handiwork on Gage’s truck.
“Where’s the keys?” Heston asks.
“Glove box.”
“There are fifteen boxes of condoms stuffed in the glove box.”
I smirk and put my hands on my hips. “I know.”
I toss the last empty can of shaving cream in the truck bed as we turn toward the barn. I’d have made it to the reception sooner if I could have, but this has kept us busy since the ceremony ended.
I know she’s in there. I saw her walk through the doors ten minutes ago while we were trashing the getaway car.
Every natural instinct in my body is on high alert the moment we step inside the barn. It’s a small wedding, but there’s still a good-sized group of people milling about with drinks in their hands. The hum of music and laughter is fun and all, but I’m more interested in finding Mesa.
Heston peels off toward the wedding party table as I stroll through the crowd. When I see her seated at a table alone, I stopand lean my back against the wall. My hands find my pockets, and I cross one boot over the other, watching her.
Logic tells me to stay focused on her face so that I can figure out what she might be thinking. It’s impossible to ignore the exposed skin on her shoulders, though. The slight dip at her waist. The smallest hint of cleavage. Even the soft skin on her neck draws me in because I know how it feels and tastes.
