Page 10

ANTON

My sister’s text message burns in my brain, serving as a reminder for two things. Neither of which I want to think about right now.

Willa

Nope, it sure isn’t.

I don’t even need to be anywhere near my brothers to hear the collective groan let out by all of us that this message was received, because I’m pretty sure none of us have checked this off our to-do list. Well, maybe Gus has. If any one of us has, it’s him.

No, I take that back. There is a chance that Hux took care of his when he was getting the one he wore for Dolly’s failed wedding.

The one that we’ve all agreed not to talk about.

At least publicly. Even though we all know that it was the best thing that could have happened, because it meant that she and Hux finally admitted the feelings that we all knew they had for each other .

Okay, two of the six of us potentially have tuxes on order. The other four absolutely don’t.

Adding that to the to-do list…

More importantly…or at least tectonic …in all this is the unspoken reminder that I still don’t have a date to this wedding. That is six weeks away.

Shit.

I need an escape. This house is too quiet. Or maybe it’s that my thoughts are too loud. Either way, I need to do something to distract me from my lack of prospects. Better yet, there’s always the hope of finding one while there.

No, it’s definitely the first, because I also need a drink.

Except, I can’t go to Pour Decisions, the taproom my brother Milo runs as part of his brewery, Southern Brothers Brewing, because that’s where all of my brothers will be. And all they’re going to do is remind me of the bet I made, teasing me about how I still don’t have said date.

To be fair, I probably deserve it.

It was my big fat mouth that got me into this mess.

As the instigator of the family, I’ve been known to push their buttons.

And I pushed Hux’s to an almost breaking point a little over a month ago.

To the point that our younger brother Jace came to his defense, betting me anything I couldn’t find a date to Willa’s wedding.

Then the rest of them tacked on.

And I stupidly agreed.

Which means I need to figure this out. Soon.

I head to The Giddy Up, the local honky-tonk out at the Knox County line.

Greeted by loud music as I walk into the stereotypical rural bar, with its natural wood finishes, country music, beer paraphernalia on the walls, and of course, the requisite deer head, I scan the lower level, seeing what’s going on.

A whole lot of nothing .

Which makes sense. It’s July 3rd after all.

And who goes out the night before the Fourth of July?

No one. At least not in this town. It’s too big of a holiday and everyone’s prepping for all the big things going on tomorrow.

Everyone’s going to be up early for the pancake breakfast. And then be out all day in the sun at the town picnic.

Not to mention up late at the fireworks.

It’s a long fucking day.

That said, there are a few people out. Mostly some of the girls and other locals that I’ve known my whole life. Which means they don’t count. Because that was one of the rules of the bet—that my date couldn’t be someone that we’ve known all our life.

Sure. My brother only mentioned Alice Evans and Emily Barrowcliff, two of Dolly’s best friends, very specifically, but I’m pretty sure that if I asked Molly, the town accountant, Katie, the nurse for the local GP, or even Jill, the office manager for the elementary school, that one of my brothers would say that they don’t count either.

I order a beer—a Southern Brothers Party Mode—leaning against the bar and letting the thrum of the bass knead its way into me.

The song is an old one, taking me back to college when it was all over the radio, and I lose myself in it for a moment.

While it’s not enough to fully distract me, it beats the hell out of sitting at home on the couch.

“Didn’t expect to see you here.”

A long purr follows the drawn-out vowels on here , leaving no doubt in my mind who is behind me. Even over music designed to be loud enough you can’t hear your own thoughts.

Kitty Cattaway.

I spin around, unsurprised by who I find, the leggy, platinum blonde looking me up and down like I’m the last steak at the buffet and she hasn’t eaten in a month.

In true Kitty fashion, she’s overdressed for the occasion.

Or should I say under dressed. Her miniskirt is so short it looks like it barely covers her ass, her high-heeled boots make her taller than she already is, and a low-cut cropped tube top shimmies its way down her boobs with every move she makes.

Looking at her now, it’s hard to believe she was once upon a time my sister’s rival for the Miss Georgia crown.

“Could say that about you too,” I counter, resting my elbows against the bar.

Kitty takes my comment as an invitation, which I suppose it was in a way, stepping into me, leaving only a few inches between us.

“Don’t you have a peach grove to be playing in or something?”

“Don’t you have…” I stop. Because I don’t actually know what the Cattaways do. Shit. I should, but I don’t. Flowers? Bees? Something like that. “To be prepping for tomorrow?”

There. That should cover it.

“All prepped and ready.” She giggles, walking her fingers up my chest.

I look down, watching her digits slowly move up the cotton of my T-shirt, debating if I really want to engage in this conversation.

Kitty and my sister hate each other. Why, I’m still not exactly sure.

Something to do with pageant stuff, I think.

Maybe there’s more to it. Honestly, by that point in Willa’s life, I was off at UGA focusing on my PhD, and only ever caught bits and pieces of her drama.

What I do remember was that Kitty was at the center of it.

More than that, though, Kitty has a reputation.

One that assures me that if what I want is to be distracted tonight, she’ll be game. I’m just not sure that’s the distraction I want. Nor do I think that it will really get that cute, chestnut-haired ag researcher out of my thoughts .

“What do you say we get out of here? Go somewhere I can show you how I purrrrrr…”

She draws out that last word again, pushing up to her toes to whisper it in my ear. A zing shoots down my spine and I flinch, my body’s reaction a complete one-eighty from my mind’s.

I need to politely decline. Maybe Pour Decisions would have been the better option. I’ll take my brothers’ shit over this any day.

Then out of the corner of my eye, I see movement. It’s quick. Subtle. But it catches my eye anyway. A flash of chestnut hair that I’d somehow know anywhere.

Sawyer.

Suddenly, I’m on high alert. Like one of those police sniffer dogs who have caught the scent and are unable to focus on anything else. Shifting away from Kitty—I don’t even think I excuse myself, oops—I zone in on Sawyer, watching her from afar as she takes in the lay of the land.

Dressed in bedazzled denim shorts and a baby-blue tank top, with her gorgeous hair down, tousled just right and flowing over her shoulders, she looks like a different person than the one who’s been in the lab with me the last couple of days.

Much more relaxed. Dare I even say like she might have some fun?

Fun I want in on.

She doesn’t see me; her own focus is turned to something I can’t follow. Until she turns. And heads upstairs.

Jackpot.

I make a beeline for the spiral metal staircase in the corner that leads to the second floor.

It’s another moment before I can head up, a group of people taking their time coming down the single-file staircase preventing me from following her immediately.

But when I make it up, I hang back for a second before walking through the door labeled karaoke.

“Sweet Caroline!” an older man with a salt-and-pepper beard belts out as I walk into the room.

Bright lights from the small stage blind me, my eyes taking a second to adjust. The karaoke room is small and dark, and tonight is mostly empty. Just Mr. Sweet Caroline, a redheaded woman flipping through the list of songs, and Sawyer. Oh, and now me.

Mr. Sweet Caroline finishes up, holding out the mic. I watch intently as the redhead shakes her head, indicating she’s not quite ready yet. Sawyer doesn’t miss a beat though, grabbing the mic and walking up and punching in her song number.

Wow, she didn’t even need to look at the book…

The opening notes of Heart’s “Alone” fill the air, softly at first, growing louder as they build. My heart races, anticipation building as I wait for Sawyer’s next move.

Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she has all the confidence of Ann Wilson herself as she starts to sing. And I do mean sing .

If I thought she didn’t miss a beat in stepping up to do this, then she really doesn’t miss one as she performs. She hits every note, every vocalization, every little thing.

Goose bumps crawl up my skin. I can’t take my eyes off how incredible she is, belting out this song like she was made to be on stage, conveying the intensity of trying to tell someone your feelings for them.

Holy shit…

Finishing up, she receives a standing ovation from the other two performers. I’m still too shocked to move. To do anything. Buttoned-up, know-it-all Sawyer likes karaoke. And she’s good at it.

Swapping places with the redhead, Sawyer looks like she’s just won a gold medal at the Olympics, a mile-wide smile taking over her face.

Fuck me. That smile is doing things to me too.

My pulse somehow picks up and stops simultaneously as my stomach ties itself in knots.

You’d think she was the first pretty girl I’d ever laid eyes on.

What she is, however, is irresistible. Whatever I thought I saw in her when she first pulled over to ask directions is amplified now. Almost enough to make me forget that she’s borderline annoying. And abrasive. And bossy as fuck.

Despite all that, there’s no staying away.