Page 133 of The Long Way Home
Then I hear footsteps on the stairs.
I glance up, and my pulse stutters, a physical reaction I know better than to fight. Some things still have the power to reach straight through me.
Sunny.
I take a big swallow as my eyes roam her head to toe.
She is wearing a dress that is fitted in that effortless, maddening way that makes it hard to look anywhere else. The fabric clings just enough to hint at every curve, then falls in soft waves around her thighs. The color is a deep and muted burgundy, similar to the sky after the sun begins to disappear. Her hair is down with that soft wave.
She catches me staring. I know I should look away, but I don’t want to. I can’t. I stay frozen, captivated, caught in the pull of her. Every part of me is alive with awe, and I don’t even try to hide it.
Her brow lifts, teasing. “What?”
My throat is dry and I struggle for a second. Then I manage, “Nothing. You just look—”
But the words catch, unfinished, my brain can’t quite form them fast enough to keep up with what my body already knows.
“Hot,” Connor interrupts, strolling in behind her with perfect timing. “All of you look hot. What the hell. This is aggressive. I feel underdressed.”
The girls file in one by one. Margo in a silky black jumpsuit, Slone in a green dress that matches her eyes, Lexi in bright coral with cutouts on the side. Yeah, Connor isn’t wrong. They all look hot, but there is only one woman I keep coming back to.
“I feel like I should go back and change,” Wes mutters to Anderson.
Anderson sips his beer. “Doesn’t matter what we wear, buddy. No one’s gonna be looking at us.”
Lexi winks. “If that ain’t the truth.”
“Let’s go,” Slone says, grabbing her purse. “Before anyone melts from all this tension.”
“Speak for yourself,” Connor calls after her. “I thrive in tension.”
The restaurant is one of those lake staples that doesn’t bother advertising itself. From the outside, it is weathered siding and crooked signage, string lights barely visible in the dusk. But the moment we step through the doors, the atmosphere shifts. Open-air seating spills out toward the water, music hums from a small corner stage, and the air is thick with the smell of fried catfish and buttered grills. My stomach answers before I do.
We claim a long table near the railing, the lake stretched out behind it, glowing amber as the sun sinks low. Chairs scrape, people shuffle. Connor moves fast, claiming the seat beside Slone and pulling out her chair like it was never a question. He shoots me a smug look over his shoulder.
Slone smirks but takes the seat anyway. Lexi slides in next to her, Wes claiming the spot on her other side. Rachel ends up beside me, with Margo and Anderson anchoring the farend. Menus are passed. Drinks ordered. Laughter comes easy, overlapping.
Dinner arrives in waves. Blackened fish, pulled pork, shrimp and grits, grilled vegetables. Everything tastes better eaten outdoors, with music humming and the lake breathing quietly behind us.
After we eat, the music swells. A guy with a guitar, a woman with a voice that cuts straight through the noise. She moves through covers like they belong to her—Fleetwood Mac, Ray LaMontagne, even a stripped-down Harry Styles song that slows the table for a beat.
Rachel sips her drink and turns toward me. “So,” she says, tilting her head slightly. “Are you glad you came this weekend?”
I look at her, eyes snagging at the soft curve of her smile. “I should be asking you that.”
“Yeah, Rhett. I’m really happy I came back to this place.”
The music shifts gears. The softness gives way to something warmer, a rhythm with teeth in it. It rolls through the space and tugs at people without effort. A couple near the stage stands first. They start slow, bodies angled toward each other, moving like they’ve done this before. Another pair follows. Then another. Chairs scrape back. Glasses get abandoned on tabletops. The patio starts to loosen, laughter bleeding into movement.
Anderson stands up first, holding a hand out to Margo. “C’mon,” he says with a lopsided smile. “Let’s show these people how it’s done.”
She laughs, letting him pull her up. “You have never once shown anyone how it’s done.”
“Oh, I beg to differ, Trouble. I remember vividly the first dance we ever shared. And if I’m recalling correctly, it led to a lot of kissing.”
“Maybe you’ll get just as lucky this time.”
They head toward the small dance floor, joining the growing crowd of couples. Suddenly, I’m thankful I didn’t get to hear the rest of their conversation.
