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He’s been in the mash house today. The sweet, earthy scent of dried corn and clean water rises off his skin, and I have to close my eyes against a rush of memories that hit me like a dram of hundred-proof whiskey.
Those slow hands, sifting reverently through the dried grain destined to become his next world-famous vintage.
Sneaking into the warehouse after hours to taste a standout ten-year cask he’d opened that day. The colors that exploded inside my head as I’d sipped that particular deliciousness.
Nate in bed, naked, reading a biography of Robert the Bruce, one arm bent behind his head, the other wrapped around me. This same smell filling my head as I fell asleep on his chest.
A bone-deep ache fills me.
“Milly, honey, don’t just stand there like a bump on a log. Put your left hand on Nate’s shoulder.”
I blink, startled out of the past by Holly’s admonishment, and my blood rips through my body with renewed vigor at the look in Nate’s honey brown eyes. They’re soft. Certain. Just like his hand on my back. Awareness rings from the spot where his thumb brushes against the top of my shoulder blade.
It’s all right.
This is most certainly not all right, but I find myself putting my hand on the ball of Nate’s massive shoulder anyway. Even through his shirt, I can feel the raw strength of the muscles there.
“Now clasp your free hands.”
I glance to my right. Nate holds up his paw, and I take a deep breath and glide my hand into his. My belly tightens at the warm, dry feel of his grip. We never really went out together, so we didn’t have a chance to stroll down the street and hold hands. Would things be different if we had?
Would he have stayed if I hadn’t been obsessed with keeping our relationship a secret? Even after all this time, I still wonder what I could have done differently.
Nate’s eyes bore into mine. He furrows his brow like he knows my thoughts are leading me down a path I don’t want to be on.
He looks like he gives a shit.
But he doesn’t. He ripped my heart out and left me for dead, and I’d be an idiot to forget that.
The ache inside me dissipates. I stiffen my body, careful to keep as much distance between us as possible, and focus my gaze on the shiny wood floor.
“No, no, no,” Holly says, and I know without looking she’s wagging her finger at me. “Y’all have looked at your feet enough. Time to look at each other. Free your mind, and let your bodies take over.”
Goddammit. Sometimes I really hate how great Holly is at her job. But Nate needs to get this dance right for his big day, so I’ll put on my wedding planner face and pretend like I’ve never pretended before.
An Al Green song comes on, and Nate squeezes my hand and leads us through the foxtrot. I keep my gaze trained on the brick wall over his shoulder. It’s a challenge to remember the steps without looking at my feet. I mess up a couple of times, stepping forward when I should step back, but Nate is there to catch me every time. When I get tripped up and our toes bump, he uses the hand on my back to nudge me left so I know where to go next.
How did we reverse roles so easily? Two songs ago, I was the one looking out for him. Now Nate’s the one guiding me, giving my hand a little squeeze in a silent pep talk whenever I mess up.
After a few rounds, I finally go a whole verse without stepping on Nate’s toes. We actually move in tandem, and dare I say, it feels kinda . . . good?
“Now focus on being a little less stiff.” Holly sidles up to Nate from behind and puts her hands on his hips, nudging them one way, then the other. “These hips don’t lie. If they’re dead, so is your dance. Move. Shake. Thrust.”
“Please don’t thrust,” I say, only half-joking.
Nate grins, and I immediately regret making the joke because he is so fucking handsome when he’s happy. Once upon a time, I lived to see this man smile. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, it was like a Blue Ridge sunrise and the morning’s first sip of steaming hot coffee and the best orgasm you’ve ever had all rolled into one.
His full lips part ever so slightly, revealing a flash of white teeth, and the skin around his eyes crinkles. The grave, frowning man I saw when I walked into the studio is a distant memory. I feel a flicker of pride that I was the one to chase him away.
“Humping is a hard no for me too,” Nate replies. “Don’t worry.”
