Page 62 of Homebound

Wyatt’s simple, heartfelt words ease my concern, and I’ll never know how he manages to say exactly what I need to hear. He always used to have this way of distilling the most complicated emotions into the simplest feelings.

My lips tip up. “You sound like my dad.”

“He’s a smart man, even though he is somewhat terrifying.” He strokes my dimple, and I find myself imagining what it’d be like to suck his thumb into my mouth.

“There’s that smile,” he whispers against my ear, and I shiver.

I can’t stop shivering, and it’s at least eighty-five degrees in this bar because Willie’s family hasn’t updated the AC since the mid two-thousands.

His thumb continues its distracting swirls, pulling all my focus to him and his rough hands, until the lead singer speaks into the microphone on stage. “Alright folks, we’re gonna start off with a few covers here in a bit, so finish off those beers, grab another round, and find yourself a pretty dance partner.”

“Hey, Killer!” Tyler, one of the Bronc riders, shouts across the bar. “Dance with me!”

I cup my hands around my mouth, earning a few looks from the crowd. “You’re gonna have to ask me nicer than that, sugar!”

Tyler’s a decent one, so he scoots back from his chair and starts heading toward me. Wyatt releases a noise that sounds like a snarl, and beneath the table, I notice his fists clenched.

He slams back his whiskey right as the rest of the band meanders on stage. The lead singer looks like a flannel teddy bear while the fiddle player is a particularly cute brunette with a tattoo sleeve and fluffy curtain bangs.

Wyatt eyes the curtain-banged fiddle player a little too long, and something tightens in my chest the longer he stares. His gaze narrows on her, and then all of a sudden, his mouth curls up into a leisurely curve.

A second later, he smacks the wood. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

I’m almost tempted to stop him because I want him here, next to me. But if he wants to go after another woman, I don’t want to block him. This man deserves all the happiness in the world.

All he does is shoot me a saucy wink over his shoulder as he saunters away. He walks right up to the pretty fiddle player. Then, he starts flirting with her. My stomach plummets.

I know he’s flirting because he does a finger-crook to get her to come closer and then dips his cowboy hat low, whispering in her ear. He says something to make her laugh, and her giggle bullets through me.

I slam back my margarita, only to remember I’ve already drained the whole thing.

My body heats about twenty degrees, and I wonder if people can spark spontaneous fevers. Turns out, I don’t like watching him flirt with other women.

Not one bit.

25

TUPELO HONEY

WYATT

The fiddle player is a talker, and I like talking to strangers after a few drinks, which means we get lost in conversation for a solid twenty minutes, delaying the start of the band, The Outlaws.

Tyler and Dakota are chatting by the bar, heads dipped close together. This woman—she’s always got a man ready and waiting at her heels. I blame the white cotton dress she’s got on that’s turning everyone’s head.

She keeps glancing over at me, and yeah, I’m jealous, but I’m not worried. I’m kissing Dakota tonight, and no one’s stopping me.

Not a goddamn thing.

I came over to the stage because I have a plan, a damn-near brilliant plan if I do say so myself, but I’m quickly sucked into the fiddle-player’s captivating story about the love triangle she’s stuck in between the gruff lead singer and the himbo saxophonist.

She taught me that word. Himbo. Fun word.

By the time she finishes, I feel like I’ve known Saoirse—it’s pronounced Sersha, Wyatt! Ser-sha—my entire life.

After she begs for my advice on her love life, I hiss in a breath through my teeth. “I wish I could tell you what to do, Saoirse, but I’ve never been a fan of love triangles.”