Page 36 of Where I Should’ve Been

She blinks quickly, first at me and then at her brother and sister-in-law. “A dance?”

“Yeah,” I answer, a smile curling my lips up. “A dance.”

Her eyes narrow playfully. “Are you good at dancing?”

“I don’t know, but I’m hoping we’re about to find out.” I smirk and hold out my hand toward her. “C’mon, Breezy. I won’t bite, I promise.”

“It’s not the biting I’m worried about. It’s the stepping on my feet.”

I wink. “I won’t do that either.”

She hesitates just long enough to make me sweat, but when she slips her hand into mine, I celebrate the victory.

Her palm is warm, her fingers small but sure, and instantly, something in my chest unclenches. I lead us onto the dance floor, where boots shuffle and skirts sway, and the air smells like beer, wood, and dust.

I’m sure there are a dozen busybodies watching us, including Fiona Blue with an expression like she’s swallowed a bug, but I don’t give a damn. Because right now, with Breezy’s hand in mine and her laughter brushing my throat, I feel good.

That’s a dangerous thing for a man like me. Good isn’t something I trust. Good never lasts.

But with her body close and her perfume cutting through the smell of booze and sweat, I decide to stop thinking.

Just for a song.

Just for a dance.

Just long enough to let the noise in my head fade away and remember what it feels like to be alive.

14

Breezy

The music is loud, the floorboards are shaking, and I’m laughing so hard my stomach hurts.

Tad’s hand is warm in mine as he spins me into the crush of people line dancing in The Country Club. Clay is on the other side of the floor hollering like a rodeo announcer, and Bennett and Norah are tucked into a corner table, enjoying a date night while Marty Higgins’s wife Sheila babysits Autumn, and watching me with identical amused smiles. Even Bennett—my perpetually broody brother—looks halfway entertained by my flailing attempt at a grapevine step.

“Left foot, Breezy!” Tad calls over the music, his grin wide and his eyes wicked.

“I am left-footing!” I yell back, but I’m laughing too hard to actually figure out which foot is which. He doesn’t care. He catches me by the waist, hauls me closer, and twirls me until I’m breathless.

It’s ridiculous. And fun. And nothing like my life in New York.

Back home, nights were quiet dinners, charity galas, perfectly composed smiles under dim gallery lighting. Here, I’m sweaty in my designer boots, my hair falling out of its sleek blowout, and the whole damn town seems to be watching me laugh like an idiot.

And I don’t even care.

I catch sight of Norah nudging Bennett, both of them laughing, and Clay saluting with his beer. But it doesn’t feel like they’re laughing at me; it feels like they’re laughing with me.

And I honestly can’t remember the last time I let myself go like this. Maybe I never have.

The thought catches in my chest. Over the past week, I’ve entertained the idea of figuring out my next move—scrolling through job postings at museums and galleries, clicking in and out of listings that all blur together. I even thought about reaching out to a headhunter once or twice, but something about it feels…I don’t know…too soon. Or maybe it feels wrong, like I’m admitting the career and life I built in New York is really over.

Instead, I hired someone to deal with the chaos in my apartment and paid movers to take all the gallery boxes to a storage facility down the street because the housekeeper couldn’t find the floors under the mess.

Everything’s technically “handled,” but nothing feels settled, and I’ve basically resigned myself to the fact that I don’t know what comes next.

For once, I’m just…here.

The song shifts and the beat slows down dramatically. Tad slides in behind me, one arm circling my waist. I lean back into him, chest still rising and falling with laughter and my cheeks aching from smiling so damn much.