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We don’t need to.
It’s just us, and the charged glances full of promise that we give each other with every mile that passes.
The Nortons’ farm isn’t that far.
Heart’s Edge is one of those towns where half the population lives outside the town itself, sprawled out on little ranches and homesteads throughout the valleys and rolling hills.
The Nortons are one such homestead with a ranch house older than Libby’s and a few barns, surrounded by pens full of healthy, shaggy sheep and goats.
The brand-new barn we put up a few days ago glows bright red, lit up everywhere with string lights and lanterns.
There’s music busting out of the open barn doors, too.
Rockabilly in full swing, loud and energetic.
We can make out dozens of shapes moving around, people strolling among the refreshments set out outside on picnic tables or slipping off for what looks like more private…conversations.
There’s barely room to park on the road outside the fence, but I find a spot and hurry to help Libby before she tries to climb out on her own.
I know she can.
I just want the excuse to get my hands all over her. Helping her down, I steady her waist as she jumps down off the footboard, into my arms.
I’ve only been to two other barn dances in my life. They don’t happen as often as those down-home country movies would make a person think.
Usually it’s just grown-up parties with wine in people’s dining rooms or kids having awkward dances in the school gym.
Barn dances are one of the only times adults and kids get to mingle in the same place. There’s something nice about seeing teenagers swinging it out on the dance floor while their folks embarrass them slow dancing to the exact same music. Meanwhile, plenty of bystanders sit on hay bales stacked all around and chat over drinks.
I can’t explain why, but seeing faces both familiar and strange, all here together laughing and dancing and talking…it makes me feel like I’m home.
Nowhere has felt like home since I left Heart’s Edge.
I’m starting to think nowhere else ever will.
All I want, right now, is to drag Libby out on that clean-swept floor and dance away our woes—dead bodies, thieving assholes, and debts—but I can’t quite get clear without talking to the hosts.
The second Keith Norton catches sight of me, he raises his hand, hollering out “Holt!” at the top of his lungs. He tumbles down from a stack of hay bales, nearly crashing into me.
What follows is the most embarrassing damn display of back-thumping, thanks, and praise for my crew’s hard work.
The whole time Libby watches with a smirk.
One that says she knows how awkward this is for me, so much that I’m fucking red-faced while Norton talks like I hung the moon instead of built him a barn.
After I’ve had my hand practically crushed from shaking over and over again, we’re alone.
Finally.
She folds her arms over her chest, tilting her head up at me, her hip cocked.
“Look at you,” she teases gently. “Mr. Respectable. What happened to being the pariah of Heart’s Edge?”
“I lost that crown when I stopped sleeping with anything that moved and started offering good work cheaper than they could hire out of Missoula or Spokane.” I laugh breathlessly. “Goddamn, though. That was a little much.”
“What, don’t like having your ego stroked?”
I bite my tongue. No sense in detailing a few other things I’d rather have stroked.
Then again, the gleam in her eyes and that catty little smile says she knows it, anyway.
She knows, and she set me up.
This little screamer loves testing my self-control.
Chuckling, I sweep an arm around her, pulling her close. “Hey. How about we forget my ego and dance?”
“I wouldn’t say no to that.”
Her hand slips in mine.
A low growl burns up my throat.
I tug her close in a single pull, her body pressed so light to mine, and shit, it feels good to rest my hand on the small of her back, the curve of her spine against my palm.
She’s hot tonight, burning me through thin fabric. I feel her body printed against mine from the swell of her immaculate tits to the just-right curve of her belly to the softness of her thighs.
I don’t even care what song’s playing.
I want to hold her with those blue eyes looking up at me all starry and dazed, that pretty red mouth parted, her cheeks all pink and warm.
She’s so fucking lovely it hurts.
The speakers start pumping out some fast-paced Molly Hatchet, and there’s my cue.
Spinning Libby into my arms and a quick-step dance, we twirl in brisk rhythm. Her skirt spins around in a pinwheel flare and her face ignites with laughter.
We test each other with intricate steps.
There’s an energy here that makes me feel like lightning.
An energy to her that feels like I’m taming a storm.
