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Wyatt cuts me a glance before he holds out his hand. “Welcome to Hartsville, Palmer.”

“Happy to be here.” Palmer takes my brother’s hand. “Quite the operation y’all got over at the ranch. Mollie gave me a little tour this afternoon.”

That all she give you?

I don’t realize I’m holding my beer in a death grip until Palmer is holding his hand out to me. I let an awkward beat of silence pass before I finally take it.

“You here for the weekend?” I ask. I don’t wanna engage this douche in conversation, but my curiosity gets the better of me. I suddenly need to know who Palmer is to Mollie, exactly, and how long he plans to stay.

Palmer glances at Mollie. “For a day or two, yeah.”

A day or two? And is that disappointment I see flicker across Mollie’s face?

I fuckinghatethis guy.

Wyatt was wrong. I can still be stupid. I’m being stupid right now, hating someone I don’t even know.

But when I try to rein in that hatred, all I feel is, well, more hatred. So I let it ride.

“Y’all are friends,” I say slowly.

Mollie smiles at Tallulah as she takes two longnecks out of the bartender’s hands. “Thank you, Tallulah. And, yeah, Palmer and I met back in college. Then we ran into each other a few years later in Dallas and…reconnected.”

I flick my eyes over his clothes. “What do you do there?”

“I’m a trader.” He sips his beer and looks over at the dance floor, apparently oblivious to my seething hatred and Mollie’s presence. “Commodities.”

“So you bet on the shit we grow out here in the country to go down in price.”

Palmer shrugs. “Sometimes, sure.”

Mollie looks at me. I look back.Him, really?

In reply, she loops her arm through his, sending a spasm of rage—jealousy, more like it—through my middle.

“Palmer, let’s go check out the band. They’re awesome. The drummer is our cook, and the backup singer is our vet.”

“Cute,” Palmer says. “Let’s do it.”

I pretend to busy myself with my beer, but I can’t stop sneaking glances at the two of them on the dance floor. He’s got his hands on her now, Mollie swaying in time to a Chris Stapleton cover. She turns to Palmer, and he spins her around. She smiles.

An ache takes root in the pit of my stomach.

This time last week, I was the guy twirling her around the dance floor.

I was the guy she was smiling at.

I do not like seeing her smile at someone else. Not one fucking bit.

They dance, and I drink.

Then Slick bumps into the girls dancing behind them. Instead of continuing to dance with Mollie, he turns around and starts talking to them. They’re the Hager girls, a pair of award-winning barrel racers.

They’re pretty—a fact Palmer seems to take note of.

The ache in my center builds as I watch Mollie politely engage them in conversation alongside Palmer. The band is between songs, so I can just barely hear them talking.

A new song starts, and Mollie tries to pull Palmer away.