Page 71 of A Hard Habit to Break

“I did,” Noah interrupted. “You need to see I’m serious. This is me showing you.”

Rachel’s heart did that annoying flutter thing it had been doing since Noah had waltzed back into her life. “And exactly how are you planning to show me?”

His grin could have powered half the county. “Dinner and dancing at the Black Bear. The whole town’s gonna know you’re mine.”

Mine.The possessive claim should have rankled her independent spirit, but instead it sent warmth spiraling through her chest. Still, she couldn’t resist needling him. “What if I don’t want to be yours?”

Noah’s gaze traveled slowly from her freshly curled hair down to her mini denim cutoffs that showed off legs he’d been stealing glances at all day, then further, to her worn cowgirl boots. “Then you wouldn’t be wearing those shorts that are driving me half-crazy, and you sure as heck wouldn’t be looking at me like you want to finish what we started before breakfast.”

Rachel’s mouth fell open. Had she really been that obvious? The cutoffs had been a deliberate choice—just enough skin to make him remember what he’d be missing if he didn’t treat her right. “I always dress like this.”

“For me you do, girl boss.” Noah’s voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Come on, beautiful. Let’s give this town something to talk about.”

“Enjoy your date,” Bethany said, brushing a hand over Rachel’s curls. “You worked so hard to make our wedding day special.” She tilted her head up, eyes meeting Noah’s. “You, too. You both have done fine work today. Go,” she whispered. “Celebrate.”

The tension leaked from Rachel’s tense limbs. Noah seemed to shake off the shackles of the past, grasping the importance of this night.

“Thank you.” Rachel smiled. “We will.”

For all the times she’d imagined herself in Noah’s arms, sharing his bed, she’d underestimated how monumental a chance this step forward was, not just to them but to the people who wanted the best for both of them. As she walked away, she could see her father watching, his big shadow standing by to catch her. Rachel held on to Noah with one hand, the stems of her bouquet relaxed in the other.

Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at the Black Bear. The ride down the mountain took longer than cutting through the woods that separated the farm from the Calvary homestead and crossing the Cattail Creek footbridge. The bar and grill buzzed with Monday night energy, the air thick with the scent of grilled burgers and the promise of end-of-a-long-day freedom. Rachel’s stomach clenched as Noah’s hand found the small of her back, guiding her through the crowd. Every eye in the place seemed to track their movement, conversations pausing midsentence as they passed.

“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.” Kanaan, still covered in grease from his garage, raised his beer bottle in salute. “Guess my cousin finally got his head out of his butt.”

“About time, Noah,” called Gracie Lou from behind the bar, her smile wide enough to split her face. “First drink’s on the house for the happy couple.”

Rachel’s cheeks burned, but Noah just tipped his hat and pulled her closer. His firefighter buddies erupted in a chorus of hoots and catcalls that would have made sailors blush.

“Shut up, you idiots,” Noah laughed, but Rachel could feel the pride radiating from him like heat from a bonfire.

“Hey, Rachel.” Penelope bounced over from the corner booth, dragging her husband Taylor behind her. “Oh my goodness, you two finally got it right. I’ve been waiting for this since we were in Mrs. Hightower’s sixth-grade class.”

“Pen—” Rachel started, but her childhood friend was already pulling out her phone.

“I have to get a picture. My mom is going to die when she sees this. They’re away in Georgia visiting our second cousin on my dad’s side. She always said you two would end up together.”

Rachel found herself laughing despite her embarrassment. This was Service. Everyone knew everyone else’s business before they knew it themselves. Privacy was a foreign concept, but so was judgment. These people had watched her grow up, held her when she’d cried, and welcomed her home.

She and Noah ate more beef in one sitting than she’d had in a month. They laughed, they reminisced with old friends. And dare she think it… fell harder into love.

The three-man band struck up a line dance, and suddenly half the bar was on their feet. Mrs. Rosa Mae, who had to be pushing seventy, grabbed Noah’s arm with surprising strength.

“Come on, you two. Time to bust a move.”

Rachel silently prayed that the elder woman’s painted-on skinny jeans wouldn’t burst at the seams. Before Rachel could protest, she was swept into the familiar rhythm of steps she’d learned in bars like this one. The denim of her cutoffs moved against her skin with each step, and she caught Noah’s heated gaze following the sway of her hips. When the dance called for a turn, she added an extra spin that made her boots click against the wooden floor and her hair fan out around her shoulders.

Noah fell into line beside her, his movements surprisingly graceful for such a big man. When he leaned close during a partner switch, his breath warm against her ear, he whispered along with the chorus about Saturday nights and holding someone tight.

“Show off,” she muttered, but her pulse quickened at the rough timber of his voice singing just for her.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet, darlin’.” His hand found her waist as they moved through the steps, his thumb tracing small circles against the bare skin above her shorts.

The music swelled, and Rachel let herself get lost in the moment. This was what she’d missed during her years away—the easy camaraderie, the sense of belonging to something bigger than herself. Noah’s friends cheered them on, some attempting to join the dance, with varying degrees of success. Mr. Wilbur from the lumberyard spun his wife with the enthusiasm of a man half his age, while the Pendleton siblings tried to outdo each other with increasingly ridiculous moves.

But as Rachel spun past the bar, her gaze caught on two figures in the corner booth who definitely weren’t cheering. Pete and Cheyenne sat rigid as a fence post, her ruined manicured fingers wrapped around a beer bottle like she wanted to crush it. Beside her, Pete nursed a whiskey and glared at her with unconcealed disdain.

Rachel’s stomach dropped. She’d almost forgotten about the complications of loving Noah, caught up in the warmth of acceptance and his infectious joy. But there they were. The past would come calling, sharp-edged and bitter.