25. Tupelo Honey
25
TUPELO HONEY
WYATT
T he fiddle player is a talker , and I like talking to strangers after a few drinks, which means we get lost in conversation for a solid twenty minutes, delaying the start of the band, The Outlaws.
Tyler and Dakota are chatting by the bar, heads dipped close together. This woman—she’s always got a man ready and waiting at her heels.I blame the white cotton dress she’s got on that’s turning everyone’s head.
She keeps glancing over at me, and yeah, I’m jealous, but I’m not worried. I’m kissing Dakota tonight, and no one’s stopping me.
Not a goddamn thing.
I came over to the stage because I have a plan, a damn-near brilliant plan if I do say so myself, but I’m quickly sucked into the fiddle-player’s captivating story about the love triangle she’s stuck in between the gruff lead singer and the himbo saxophonist.
She taught me that word. Himbo. Fun word.
By the time she finishes, I feel like I’ve known Saoirse— it’s pronounced Sersha, Wyatt! Ser-sha —my entire life.
After she begs for my advice on her love life, I hiss in a breath through my teeth. “I wish I could tell you what to do, Saoirse, but I’ve never been a fan of love triangles.”
“Me either.” She huffs into the whiskey-laden dive bar as people rustle about. “Anywho, enough of my boy problems. I’m assuming that’s not why you strutted your fine ass over here.”
“No, it’s not, and thank you ma’am for calling it fine.” I sling an arm around her shoulder, turning her to face a scowling Dakota across the smoky bar. Her frown intensifies as she watches us bonding, but that’s her norm, so I don’t take it personally. She flicks her dark hair over her shoulder and turns back to Tyler, leaning even closer to him.
My teeth grind together, but it’s fine—I’m taking her home.
“Don’t make it obvious,” I say to Saoirse. “But you see that gorgeous woman over there sipping the pink margarita and talking to that guy in the black Stetson?”
She follows my gaze with a knowing smirk. “The one glaring at you like she hates you?”
“Ah, don’t worry about it. That’s just her face. She likes me. Not as much as I like her, though.” I grin, slipping a crinkled twenty into their tip jar. “I’ve got a plan, but I need a little help setting the stage, if you know what I mean.”
Her eyes twinkle with mischief. “Oh, you trying to get the girl?”
“Yeah, for years now.”
I end up spilling my entire pathetic love story to Saoirse, and by the time I’m done, she claps her hands together, bouncing up and down. “Oh, hell yeah. I love playing matchmaker! What can I do?”
I thought I’d feel nervous about this plan, but her excitement is contagious. “Do y’all know the song ‘Tupelo Honey’ by Van Morrison?”
“Am I a fiddle player in a cover band called The Outlaws or not?” She gives another bouncy nod. “Of course I know it. Very sweet for trying to get the girl.”
“I’d like to think so.” I tap my knuckle against her forehead, glancing at Dakota again.
Her scowl seems to have grown another scowl as she watches us. I’ve never gotten hard from a woman’s scowl before, but Dakota’s?
That always does it.
I crook two fingers at Saoirse, and she lifts on her toes, bringing her ear closer to me. “See, I really want to kiss that woman over there tonight, but she’s got it in her head that we’re just friends, so I’m gonna need a little help from you to make that happen…”
I whisper my plan, and by the time I’m done going over the details, she plants a hand on her chest. “Oh my goodness, that’s the sweetest thing. Yes, we can do that.”
“Thanks, ma’am. I owe you one.” I give her a chaste kiss on the cheek, the same way I kiss my mama, before heading back to Dakota and Tyler, talking closely at a table by the bar.
I’ve seen Tyler around town before, so I know he’s a good guy, but he’s not as good for her as me. He’s clearly trying to take her home, and that won’t be happening on my watch.
They’re drifting closer to each other at the table, and I’m not sure if it’s a natural gravitational force, but either way, I’m inserting myself into their conversation.
I strut right up, scrape out a chair, and throw my arm around the back of Dakota’s shoulder in a move that all men know as stay back; she’s mine. “How are you holding up, honey?”
“Oh shit,” Tyler drawls, giving me an apologetic shrug. “I didn’t know she was yours now, man. My bad.”
“We’re not living in the eighteen-hundreds, so I’m not his ,” Dakota counters with a roll of her eyes. “Women can own property now. Shocking, I know.”
“It’s all good,” I accidentally speak over her, which I’m not all that pissed about. She might not be mine, but I’m hers.
She shoots me a glare.
I shoot back a smile.
Tyler’s head bounces between us, and he creaks up from the table, leaving us alone. “Well, you folks have fun now. See you at training next week, Killer.”
“You don’t have to leave, Tyler,” Dakota says.
Uh. Yeah, he does.
He eyes me, and I tug her chair closer, fixing him with a narrow-eyed stare.
He dips his hat. “I think I do.”
I lift my whiskey tumbler, giving him a wink. Good man , I mouth. He salutes me with two fingers before walking away. We Southern gentlemen understand the unspoken rules.
The band settles on stage, and she lifts her empty margarita, dumping a piece of ice into her mouth as she chews violently. “Sure looked like you were hitting it off with the fiddle player. She’s super cute.”
I narrow my eyes. I’m used to her scathing tone, but there’s a murkier edge to her voice this time, and… I think she’s jealous.
My smile explodes, and I start toying with one of her brown curls. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you sounded jealous, Dakota Rae Cutler.”
She flutters her lips, puffing. “Oh, please. I would never stoop so low as to feel jealous of someone. It’s a pointless emotion and never does any good.”
Her retort is too quick to be honest, and I try really fucking hard not to smile at that thought, so I lower my hand beneath the table, tracing my fingers up her bare thigh to the edge of her cotton dress. It’s a risky move, but I’m done playing it safe. I’m finally starting to feel like myself again, being out here with her.
She looks down but doesn’t stop me, and I don’t go further. I just toy with one of the loose white threads of her dress, tugging, unraveling. I can’t believe I’m finally touching her like this, and she’s not pushing me away.
I slip my pinky up her inner thigh.
Her mouth parts on a breath.
“Yeah, but that’s the thing,” I say, leaning closer so my lips brush her cheekbone. “We can’t control how we feel, but you have no reason to feel jealous. I can’t stop staring at you in that pretty little dress. You look beautiful tonight, honey.”
“I’m not jealous,” she huffs, but her breathing is too heavy. Her face too flushed.I think my words hit their mark. “At least, I don’t want to be, and um, thank you,” she adds, toying with the hem of her dress.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my smile zipped up, trailing my nose down the curve of her neck. “Course you’re not, and you’re welcome.”
I press my lips to her temple, letting them linger on her warm skin.
She sucks in a light gasp.
My jeans suddenly feel like they’re constricting every muscle, and all I can think about is taking her home, ripping off that dress, and watching it fall to the floor.
Just being this close to her, I can’t believe how much it turns me on, and based on the flush in her cheeks, I think she’s feeling the same, but she needs a little push. She’s so stuck on our history that she can’t picture our future, and I need her to want this as much as me.
The lead singer speaks into the microphone, and Dakota jumps at the noise. “Alright folks, we’re gonna start off with a cover of ‘Tupelo Honey’ by Van Morrison, so grab your partners and get on out here on the dance floor.”
Saoirse winks at me from the rickety stage, and I try not to look too smug at my perfectly laid plan. The lead singer strums his guitar, and a rugged twang fills the smoky bar as he begins singing.
I set my whiskey on the table and hold out a hand. “Alright, it’s time. Dance with me. It’ll help you loosen up.”
“No,” she grumbles.
“Yes.”
My parents taught me that when a woman says no, she means hell no , but they also taught me that sometimes a stubborn woman is like a mule—she needs a good kick in the ass to move.
And every good Southern gentleman knows when it’s appropriate to give a woman a solid ass-slapping (Hint: 100 percent of the time, it’s in the bedroom).
“Wyatt…” She complains with a groan, chewing her bottom lip as she nervously eyes the couples dancing. “I haven’t danced in years. I’m not good anymore. I’ll just step on your toes.”
I wrap my arm around her tight waist and drag her onto the creaky floor. “Go on and crush all ten of my toes ’cause that wasn’t a question, honey.”
Crush my toes, my fingers, every bone in my body, so long as you don’t crush my heart again.
“Why do you keep calling me honey? Wait,” she says, holding up a finger. “Let me guess, it’s because it’s the color of my eyes?”
“No. That’s not why.” I loop my fingers through hers. “It’s because “Tupelo Honey” is the first song we ever two-stepped to. Now, would you make me the luckiest man in this bar and dance with me, honey?”
And then she smiles, dimples and all. “Okay, summer boy. I’ll dance with you.”