Chapter Thirteen #2
Her eyelashes flicker at my confirmation. Around us, couples sway, lights twinkling overhead, the whole room slow and soft. And she looks up at me with those steel-blue eyes, like she wants to memorize my face. Like she’s searching for something in it.
All I can think is, “Ask me to make this whole thing real for you… for us.” And I would.
The thought hits me so hard I almost stumble.
But then the song ends.
Her fingers slip from my neck, the heat of her body against mine fades quickly as she takes a step back. Reality drops between us like an anvil.
“I’m going to get drinks,” she says, voice light but too controlled. “Do you want anything?”
“Water,” I manage. “Please.”
She nods and slips away through the crowd.
I watch her go, the sway of her dress, the careful composure settling over her like armor again.
And for a moment, I stand there in the middle of the dance floor, hands empty, thinking—I’m falling for my wife, but she didn’t sign up for that.
I duck into the restroom after the dance, mostly because I need a second to get my head on straight.
I splash cold water on my face and stare at myself in the mirror. I look like a man on the edge. A man who just realized the one thing he can’t have is also the one thing he can’t stop wanting.
When I finally head back toward the reception hall, I think I’m ready. I think I’m good.
But then I see her, and everything inside me goes still.
Katerina’s standing near the corner of the room, drink untouched in her hand, posture stiff, like she’s bracing herself against wind no one else feels.
Anika stands in front of her.
And I’m close enough to hear every word before either of them notices me.
“Listen, I’m happy for Scottie,” Anika says, voice soft and earnest. “I just want you to know that. I would never try to come between you two. God knows I had my chance years ago and blew it.”
Katerina’s spine straightens. “So then what are you saying?”
“I’m saying you need to understand something.” Anika glances around. “Scottie is loved here,” she says. “By everyone. He always has been. From school to sports to now… he’s the town hero. I’ve never met a single person who doesn’t adore him.”
“I don’t understand what that has to do with me,” Katerina says.
“It has everything to do with you.” Anika steps closer. “Because I also saw how he looked at you tonight. How he lit up when he dances with you.”
My pulse stumbles.
“He’s in love with you,” Anika says.
Katerina’s breath hitches. “I—”
“And I know about the visa,” Anika blurts out.
My chest caves in.
Mom must’ve said something. Or she’s guessing since Katerina is from Russia and Anika is making an assumption.
“And I just…” Anika’s voice breaks a little. “If this isn’t real for you, if you’re just using him to stay here, please… don’t drag him along. Don’t let him fall any harder. Just let him go now. Before he gets hurt.”
My throat tightens because Anika is a good person. She means well.
She has no idea what Katerina and I promised each other. How complicated this really is and how far past falling I already am.
Then Anika turns and walks away. Katerina stays frozen, staring at the floor. She looks as shocked as I feel about what Anika just said.
And I step forward.
She lifts her head, and there’s no point pretending I didn’t hear everything.
The truth of it hangs between us in thick, heavy silence.
I don’t bother to confirm or deny if Anika is right; this isn’t where I want to confess how I feel about her.
Besides, it's not fair to change the agreement now.
We agreed to help each other and then separate.
Anika was wrong to put that kind of pressure on Katerina. She has no idea what’s at stake.
I just walk up and ask quietly. “Do you want to get out of here?”
She nods.
And for the first time today, she doesn’t smile.
We barely make it ten feet before one of my cousins from out-of-town barrels toward us, almost vibrating with excitement.
“Scottie. Hey. A bunch of us are heading down to Jake’s Roadhouse — the music’s good tonight, and Corey and his bride are leaving for the airport soon. You guys coming?”
I glance at Katerina.
She looks up at me, eyes still troubled from the conversation she just had with Anika, but going back to a quiet honeymoon suite might not be the best idea to avoid the awkward silence. A night of dancing with a bar full of people and liquid distraction might be a better option.
“What do you think?” I ask softly.
She breathes out. “I think dancing is better than talking.”
A slow smile pulls at my mouth. “Yeah. I was thinking the same.”
I clap my cousin on the shoulder. “We’ll be there.”
He cheers and bolts off to rally the others.
I slip my hand into Katerina’s, warm and small in mine.
We stop by my parents’ table, and I kiss my mom’s head, then pat my dad’s shoulder. “We’re heading to Jake’s. See you tomorrow.”
Mom beams. Dad winks. And I pull Katerina out toward the rental truck, her hand still tucked inside mine.
She was right, dancing is better than talking. Because when she’s in my arms on the dance floor, there’s no fear in her eyes.
And if she thinks I was good on the wedding dance floor?... She hasn’t seen me in a honky-tonk yet.
Jake’s Roadhouse is loud, crowded, warm with bodies and laughter and twangy guitar chords vibrating through the floorboards. The kind of place I grew up in: wooden beams, neon beer signs, sawdust scattered like confetti on the planks.
Katerina takes one step inside and blinks like she’s entered another universe.
“Drinks or dancing first?” I ask, leaning down so she can hear me.
“Dancing… definitely dancing,” she says, eyes wide, lips curving. “This is… different.”
“Different good?”
She nods slowly. “I think so.”
I tug her onto the middle of the dance floor, and the second a good beat hits, I spin her under my arm. She lets out a startled laugh—crystal clear, like something rare and precious cracking through the heavy fog she carried from the reception.
“There it is,” I breathe. “There’s that smile.”
“You didn’t tell me you were good at this,” she says breathlessly as I pull her closer.
“You didn’t ask.”
We move together so easily, like we’ve danced this way for years. I twirl her, dip her, let her bounce against my chest as the crowd hoots and hollers around us. Everyone else is spinning their partners around too.
She laughs again, and it’s the best damn sound I’ve ever heard. She gets the hang of it and lets me lead her around the dance floor.
An hour passes in a blur of country songs and her teasing me about my footwork and me teasing her about being too graceful to two-step like a normal person.
But then the bar fills more. Bodies crowd in. The fast songs fade.
A slow, low, sultry beat rolls in.
People press closer and her back fits to my front like it was made to fit there, her spine brushing my chest every time she breathes.
And then she moves.
Just a small shift at first, barely anything, like she’s adjusting to the rhythm.
But then she does it again.
A slow, barely there roll of her hips against my lap.
My breath punches out.
She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t say a word. She just keeps moving with the music in that subtle, sensual sway, the kind that’s not for the room, not for show, but just for me.
Her ass presses back into my lap with every slow beat, her hips circling the smallest fraction, enough to drive every coherent thought out of my head.
I grip her waist instinctively.
She does it again. This time, a little bolder. Her body brushes mine in a way no innocent dance ever would. Her fingers lift to lace behind my neck, pulling me down just enough that her hair brushes my cheek.
She arches against me, slow and deliberate, pressing herself even closer, and I swear to God she can feel exactly how hard I am.
She trembles.
Her breath hitches when I drop a hand to her stomach, pulling her back flush against me so she can feel exactly how she’s turning me on.
Her head rests against my collarbone, and my mouth dips low to find her shoulder.
Slowly and gently, I kiss a line across her skin, tasting her like it’s something holy.
I kiss up the curve of her neck, unable to stop myself. Her fingers slide into my hair, tugging gently, guiding me where she wants me, and that’s all the permission I need.
I turn her in my arms, and my mouth finds hers, kissing her like I’ve been starving for days. She wraps her arms around the back of my neck and pulls my mouth closer to hers. My tongue swipes at her lips, and she opens, letting me in to taste her.
My tongue dances with hers, her giving as much as she receives until finally, I pull back enough to whisper against her mouth, “Want to get out of here?”
She nods just once, a little shaken but sure. I take her hand and pull her through the crowd, out the back door, into the cool Montana night.
We barely make it down the back alley behind the building before I pin her gently against the wooden siding, kissing her because God help me, I don’t have the willpower to wait another second to get her back to the hotel so I can touch her again.
And she kisses me back like she’s been waiting for me to break first.
Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, deeper, and my entire world narrows to the taste of her, the heat of her, the impossible sweetness of her breath against my mouth.
My hands slide under her dress, catching on soft fabric and soft skin. I push the hem up inch by inch, slow enough to give her every possible out.
“Katerina,” I rasp, my mouth brushing hers, “tell me if this is okay.”
“It is,” she whispers, breath trembling. “It’s more than okay.”
Her panties are silk beneath my fingers. I slide one hand past the edge, slow, still testing the boundaries of my wife’s limits with me, where she’ll let me take this between us.