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It was a rare thing to want someone’s trust, to crave it. At some undetermined point, I’d stopped wanting hers for the contract. I wanted it for my own. I wanted her for my own. And I might have figured out a way to have my cake and eat it with an unburdened conscience.
And all I had to do was be as honest as I could.
The muffled sound of honky-tonk as sung by the Blums grew louder, opening up to vibrant clarity when I entered the building. Eyes found me, faces leaning toward others to whisper and watch as I sauntered into the room like a motherfucking cowboy.
Ignoring them, I searched the stage for Jo, but she wasn’t there. Presley, who was singing, gave me a wink and a smile before her eyes cut to the other side of the room. And when I followed her gaze, there was Jo.
She wore a dress the same color blue as her eyes, deep and rich and dotted with little white flowers. The curves of her alabaster shoulders were only marred by the thinnest of straps connected to a neckline that hugged her breasts. Little buttons kept the corset tight all the way down to the skirt, which swayed with her body as she sang along from the edge of the crowd. Her legs were shaped like a woman who’d never met a trainer but knew a hard day’s work, and on her feet were a pair of brown boots with cobalt blue stitching.
Thoughts of what I might do to her with nothing but those boots on invaded my mind.
And then her face turned to mine, and for a moment, she and I were all there was.
Color flared on her pretty cheeks, those eyes sliding up and down my body like mine had done hers. She grew in my vision until I realized I’d nearly reached her, pulled in her direction without will or consent.
When I was almost by her side, she flipped some switch, her face now colored in nothing but sarcasm and amusement.
“Well, look at you,” she said, briefly glancing behind me. “I think half the straight women in town just lost their drawers.”
“Which half are you on?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“You have no idea.”
She laughed. I watched her mouth.
Looking to the stage, I said, “You’re not singing tonight?
“Nope. I have lessons to give.” Now she only looked wicked.
“And you’re the authority on two-stepping?”
“More of an authority than you, I’d wager.”
“Remember when I said I don’t take bets I know I’ll win?”
One of her brows rose as I stepped into her and grabbed her around the waist, taking her hand in mine.
“I don’t take bets I know I’ll lose either.”
She laughed, her hand clutching my bicep as I spun her in a quick circle. Every pair of eyes in the immediate radius were on us—she seemed to realize it the same moment I did.
Schooling herself, she put a little space between us before bringing us to a stop. She looked down at our feet, then back up at me.
“All right. It looks like you’ve got at least a little experience dancing. This shouldn’t be too hard.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I’ll just pin all my hopes on you looking like a dummy when you line dance.”
I must have looked worried because she laughed again.
“Okay. So the step goes one-two, one, two. One-two, one, two. On the one-two, step quick in the same direction, then step normal—right, left. So, right-left, right, left.” She’d started to shuffle to her own directions, pulling me to follow, and I did through a few practice steps. “Ready?”
Rather than answer, I spun her onto the dance floor and stepped her rightly around in a circle to the steps she’d shown me.
“Like this?” I asked with a sideways smile.
Her eyes flicked to the ceiling to mask her flush and smile. “God, are you bad at anything?”
“I’ll let you know if I find out.”
I turned her around the dance floor, ignoring everyone watching us just as well as she did.
“Save any bees today?” I asked, wishing the song was slower so I could get closer to her.
“Not today. We worked in the cannery to fill a big order for a shop in Austin.”
“Cannery?”
“It’s not as fancy as it sounds. We’re the only ones who usually work there since collectively, we possess plenty of hands. It’s just where we process what we sell commercially so it meets all the FDA requirements. We can our own in the kitchen like professionals.”
“How many generations of Blums have kept bees?”
“Six,” she answered with pride. “The farm almost didn’t survive the depression. My great-great-granddaddy used to make purses out of armadillos and take them into San Antonio to sell.”
“Purses. Armadillo purses.”
“It was a thing,” she said, amused. “A thing of nightmares, but a thing nonetheless. Google it at your own risk.”
