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No shit. My jaw clenches, and I hop out, going around to the back entrance to avoid the line. Inside, the lights are low, and a band plays loud at one end of the room.
“Sawyer? Is that you? In a tuxedo? My goodness, you look handsome.” I’m not interested in talking to Liz McMillan.
I’m interested in the girl across the room in the green dress holding Deacon Dring’s arm. What the fuck?
“Hey, Liz.” I don’t even look at her. “Tell Pat I said hi.”
I’m crossing the room, my entire focus on Mindy. Her dark hair hangs in large waves down her back, and her dress is strapless, exposing her smooth shoulders. It’s short, so her legs are on full display, long and shapely and ending in silver heels.
She’s fucking gorgeous, and possessive anger blazes in my chest. I cut across the dance floor, going straight to where she stands. “What are you doing here?”
Mindy turns and wobbles a little. Her brow lowers, and anger is all over her expression. “I’m sorry. Are you speaking to me?”
She’s still holding onto Deacon, and it’s pissing me off. Reaching out, I catch her forearm and pull her to my side. “I went to your house to pick you up. Why weren’t you there?”
She snatches her arm out of my grasp. Her full lips purse, and she’s so feisty, I want to throw her over my shoulder. “I waited for you, and you never showed up. You never called or texted—”
“So you came here with him?”
Deacon turns, and when our eyes meet, it’s like steel clashing. “Excuse me?”
He’s not smiling, and I’m not either. “You’re excused. Mindy has a date.”
“Actually, Mindy arrived by herself. It seems you were MIA.”
“Make a note. She’s with me.” Grasping her hand, I turn and lead her across the civic center. She tries to pull her hand away, but I don’t stop or let her go until we’re in a sheltered spot behind a vine-covered lattice.
I stop, and we face each other. “You said nothing was going on with him.”
“I hope you’re joking right now.” Her green eyes flash. “Deacon is here with Mrs. Irene—as if you have a right to ask.”
She wobbles again, and I remember the tequila bottle. “Are you drunk?”
“Don’t change the subject.” She points a finger in my face. “You stood me up.”
I catch that finger in my fist. “I was late.”
“I’m tired of waiting.” She tries to go, but I’m not letting her.
I pull her against my chest. We’re both breathing hard. She’s in my arms, soft, tanned skin, glowing eyes, hair. “Noel got a cake for Leon’s birthday.”
“And you couldn’t call me?” Her voice cracks. “I’m not doing this anymore, Sawyer.”
The glow in her eyes looks like tears, and my stomach drops. She tries to pull away, but I slide my hand along her back, pulling her closer, speaking right in her ear.
“I should’ve called you.”
“Yes, you should’ve.”
I dip my chin to kiss the side of her temple. “I’m sorry. Will you dance with me?”
“I don’t feel like dancing.”
“Come on.”
The band is playing “The Heart That You Own” by Dwight Yoakam, and I lead her to the floor. It’s dark and crowded, but I hear a few murmurs as we pass. We sway for a few bars in silence, listening to the words. She feels so good in my arms.
Looking around, I notice a banner hanging behind the stage with this year’s poster on it. It’s a man and a woman sitting together in an orchard. She’s on his lap, and his arm is around her waist. They both have dark hair, and they both look familiar.
