I should have looked away, but I didn’t.
Wes would have a fucking field day with this.
The sound of easy laughter, the unhurried sway of her hips as she moved through the bar, the faint scent of something warm and sweet trailing behind her. My eyes were already tracking her, already noting the way her hair fell in wild waves around her shoulders, already catching on the soft slip of fabric hugging her curves just right, already cursing the way the light caught on the bare skin of her collarbone.
“I’ll get the next round,” I announced to the table, already moving toward the bar.
I wasn’t happy she was here. At least, that was what I told myself.
I wasn’t happy that she was invading my space, my night, my town, just like she’d already invaded every corner of my brain. I wasn’t happy that she had this effortless way of commanding attention, of turning heads, of making people want to orbit around her like she was the damn sun.
And I sure as hell wasn’t happy that I was one of them.
At the bar, I signaled to the bartender and waited, focusing on my drink, my breathing, the game playing on the mounted TVs—anything but her. She was moving past me, close enough that I caught the faintest whiff of vanilla and something floral, something that made my grip tighten around my beer bottle.
And then, before she even realized it, some idiot moved too fast in her direction, not seeing her, not noticing that she was about to get knocked into the barstools.
I saw it before it happened, and my body reacted before my brain caught up.
My hand was on her before I could think better of it. My palm was firm against the small of her back, steadying her, grounding her, feeling the heat of her skin through the thin material of her dress.
She stilled, just for a second—just long enough for her body to register mine, for the warmth of her breath to ghost across my jaw when she turned her head toward me, for her pulse to kick under my touch.
I should have moved my hand. I should have let go.
Instead, my fingers curled ever so slightly against her.
She wasn’t looking at me now, not fully. Her gaze had dropped over her shoulder to where my hand was still pressed against her, like she was trying to piece together why I was still touching her.
Then I felt him—the drunk guy who nearly sent her into the bar, still standing too close, still in her space like he had a right to be.
I barely spared him a glance. Just reached out, tapped him on the shoulder.
The guy turned, bleary-eyed and slow. I didn’t smile, didn’t frown. I didn’t even have to raise my voice. I just looked at him.
“Back up.” My voice was low and even, with nothing but steel behind it.
He blinked, took one look at me, and immediately moved, his hands lifting in surrender.
Elodie finally looked up, her gaze sharp and searching, trying to pin me down. “What was that about?”
I lifted my beer, flicking my attention back toward the game. “It was nothing.”
She didn’t buy it, but after a beat, she scoffed under her breath. “Whatever.”
Shaking her head, she lingered in my space just a second too long before finally stepping away.
When the bartender returned with our beers, I scooped them up and returned to the table, where I spent an unhealthy number of minutes watching Elodie laugh and dance with Kit. At one point Kit saw Hayes, and I thought the women might join us at our table. Kit cast an invisible fishing line toward him and pretended to reel him in, but when he playfully swatted her away, she laughed before turning around on the dance floor.
He might be as brooding as me, but Hayes had a genuine soft spot for his sisters.
I had a thousand questions for Hayes about one sister in particular, but I kept them to myself. My obsession with Elodie was borderline unhealthy, and the last thing I needed was my friend knowing I was actively rooting for his little sister’s downfall.
Elodie moved like she was made to dance, undulating to the beat that proved she had natural rhythm. When the band played a slow, crooning ballad, her eyes fluttered closed. The long column of her neck stretched as she tipped her face toward the ceiling, carried away by the music. My eyes lingered, roaming over her skin, soaking in any scrap of bare flesh as she swayed.
My jaw clenched so tight it ached.
With her head tipped back, exposing the elegant stretch of her throat, I felt a sharp, physical pull, low and insistent, like an invisible tether yanking me toward her.
