Page 59

Unease swishes through me. Her tone is too devoid of emotion, even for her. Something’s wrong, and from the complete silence around the table, everyone else has realized that too. Including Poppy.

No longer dozing, she sits forward, forearms digging into the edge of the table and brows crinkled. “What’s going on, Bryce?”

I wince. Bryce’s arm turns into a vise around me, but it’s not a painful hold. My wince stems from the question being asked in such an open environment.

Maybe I’m overthinking it. I don’t know Bryce even a quarter of the way Poppy does, but it doesn’t seem like a question Bryce would ever answer in front of everyone. If anything, I would think being asked this way would make her more upset.

“Dance with me.”

Nobody responds to the demand spoken from behind me.

“Please,” Bryce adds, her voice dipping into a soft, desperate murmur that slips over the back of my neck like warm wax.

It takes me a moment to realize she’s speaking to me.

I turn my head and focus on her, tuning out the rest of thetable as my gut cramps with uncertainty. The walls behind her eyes have lifted as they dig into mine, exposing a small flicker of . . . pain?

I’m more alert now than I’ve been in a long time. There’s not an ounce of hesitation inside of me as I hop off her lap and give the table my back. The moment I extend my hand for her to take, she smiles at me in thanks, and my pulse stutters.

It’s nothing more than a subtle tug of the corner of her mouth. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it reaction from someone who makes a habit of keeping their emotions well restricted. But despite that, I think it might be the most honest smile I’ve ever witnessed.

“You’ll have to lead. I’ve got two left feet,” I confess, almost shyly.

Bryce clasps my fingers and stands, her gaze piercing. It’s almost relieving to see the intensity returning to her eyes, even if I’m the one trapped beneath it like a spider in a glass with no way out.

“I enjoy leading.”

It sounds like more than a simple statement. Like a declaration or even . . . a promise.

She steers us away from the table without a word to anyone else. I offer her friends a very fake, apologetic smile before looking forward to where we’re going.

We don’t go undetected by the tables overflowing with busybodies and drunks. Most give us quick once-overs as we pass by, and I keep waiting for someone to make a no-good comment, but either they just don’t care enough to, or Bryce’s curled lip has struck fear in them, keeping their mouths sealed shut.

I giggle to myself at the death glares she’s shooting in every direction but mine. It’s nice being around someone who isn’t afraid to stand up for not only themselves but you too. It could be presumptuous of me, but I feel very confident in thinking that for as long as I’m filling the role of Bryce’s girlfriend, she’ll keep me safe from as much as she can.

A Rottweiler girlfriend for sure.

The square dance floor is crowded when we slip between stomping bodies and find a space to stand. A line dance comes to an end as “Cadillac Ranch” by Nitty Gritty Dirt Band rolls into a slower love song. A few people take a break from dancing and head back to their tables for a drink, creating more room for us to stand.

A place like Peakside doesn’t stray from country music, mixing the old kind with the newer pop style. Bryce’s expression slips when the current song hits the chorus, revealing an annoyance that intrigues me.

Still hand in hand, I give her a tug. She stumbles toward me, free hand coming down on my shoulder and boots scuffing the floor. I look down between us at our feet before letting loose a laugh.

“You wear cowboy boots every day, but you don’t like country music?”

A muscle ticks above her brow. “How do you know I don’t like country music?”

“Lucky guess.”

We must look awkward, neither of us swaying to the music and instead standing in place. Bryce sucks her cheek and keeps her hold on my shoulder loose, unsure, before our eyes catch. In a blink, she’s dipping her hand to the inside of my waist and palming me there, the heat from her skin a shock to my system. My inhale is sharp, and she focuses on my mouth with smothering blue eyes.

“I hate country music,” she confirms in a low voice, using her chin to gesture to the hand I have lying limply at my side. “Hold my shoulder.”

“Why do you get the waist and I get the shoulder?”

Her mouth tips in a tiny, crooked smirk. “I’m leading, Sunshine. If you want to give it a try, we can swap.”

My face feels hot as she teases me. I don’t want to think abouthow red it is. Hopefully, the dull lights help drown it out before she notices.