Chapter 6
FAYE
He’s here.
That’s my first thought as I spin away from him.
Away from those eyes that found me across the crowded bar and pinned me to the dance floor with nothing of the contempt and dismissal from our classroom encounter.
Ryder Evans replaced the disdain with a burning focus that I can only call predatory.
Even turned away, I feel his gaze on my back like fingers trailing down my spine. And that awareness wreaks havoc.
My heart pounds faster than it has all night, harder than the bass thumping through the floorboards. My body sizzles from scalp to soles, as if I’m being slow-roasted over an open flame. Heat that starts deep and works its way out until every inch of my skin feels scorched thin and hypersensitive.
I keep moving in time to the music, hips swaying, arms loose, but my mind scatters. The band grinds out a fast, dirty tune, the guitar’s metallic twang wrestling with the singer’s smoky rasp.
I focus on the music, on the press of bodies around me, on anything except the magnetic pull dragging my attention back across the room. My hair whips all over the place as I move, and my balance is off, but I refuse to stop dancing. Refuse to acknowledge the cowboy behind me.
Lila grabs my hands and makes me spin, laughing, oblivious to my inner panic.
The world blurs—lights, faces, the shimmer of glass and sweat—and then clarifies as I’m halfway through the turn.
In the fraction of a second that I face his direction again, Ryder Evans is still there, still looking at me.
Same stormy eyes as the day we met in my classroom. Different everything else.
His hair is combed back, slightly less unruly than it was that afternoon save for a rebellious strand that still curls over his cheek.
His jeans are clean, dark denim that fits him obscenely well, and he’s wearing a blue flannel that could start a religion—with him as the cowboy god and half the bar ready to kneel.
Tonight, his jaw is clean-shaven. And if I thought the scruff was problematic, seeing the sharp lines of his face, the small cleft in his chin that was hidden before, makes Ryder Evans approximately ten thousand times harder to ignore.
But I do. I have to. I spin away once more. It’s okay. I’ll dance another song, maybe two, then go home and sleep off whatever allergic reaction my body is having.
“You alright?” Lila shouts over the music, still holding my hands.
“I’m fine,” I shout back, pulling her deeper into the crowd. Away from him. “Just hot.”
She grins. “Yeah, it’s packed tonight.” Packed. Right. That’s why I can’t breathe. Nothing to do with the man who decided this was a great night to show up at the one place his sister promised me he wouldn’t be. “Do you want to take a break?”
“No, let’s dance.”
I’m safe on the dance floor, or so I think.
A few paces away, two men argue over a woman who clearly isn’t interested in either of them. Their voices rise, aggressive and slurred. The shorter guy shoves the other. The crowd around them shifts, giving them space, but Lila and I are too close, boxed in by dancers on all sides.
The first punch comes out of nowhere. One second, the men are chest to chest; the next, they’re grappling, knocking into people, sending drinks flying.
The crowd scrambles away, squeezing us tighter in the middle.
When the press becomes too hard, someone shoves me from behind.
I stumble forward, straight into the path of the bigger guy’s elbow as he drives it back in a wide, wild swing.
I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for impact. But the hit never comes. Strong arms wrap around my waist and yank me backward.
I collide with a rock-solid chest, the crash knocking the air from my lungs. Not because of its force, but from the shock. From the sudden overwhelming sensation of being held against a lean, male body.
A woodsy scent mixed with cotton and soap fills my nose. Large hands steady my hips, firm and warm through the denim. They let go immediately, but the ghost of his touch lingers, branded into my skin through my jeans.
On instinct, I know it’s him, and that’s why I take an extra heartbeat before turning around.
Ryder Evans stands behind me, close enough that I have to crane my neck backward to meet his gaze. Seeing him up close is a kick to the sternum. My lungs stop cooperating. He’s taking up all the space and most of the air.
“Mr. Evans,” I greet him formally.
His eyes drop to mine, flickering with concern? Amusement? Heat?
He smiles.
It’s the first time I’ve seen this expression on his face, and it’s not fair. The smile transforms him from attractive to lethal. It softens the hard angles, lights up those impossible blue-violet eyes until they practically glow.
“Miss Rose.” He nods, mock serious. “You forgot to say hello earlier.”
Yeah, because I’m a coward.
“I was dancing,” I reply, lifting my chin.
“Yeah, I saw.”
Heat crawls up my neck. Was he watching me the entire time? How long has he been staring?
I clear my throat. “I suppose I have to thank you for saving me from eating a fist sandwich.”
Ryder’s hands shoot out, gripping my elbows to pull me against him.
I’m so shocked by the move that I don’t offer resistance.
It takes a second to register that he’s saving me from being trampled as, behind me, the bartender marches past, dragging both fighters toward the door by the collars of their shirts while they still struggle.
“Glad I could be of service.” A chuckle rumbles in Ryder’s chest where my palms have landed. The flannel is soft, but underneath it, his pecs are rock solid. His heart beats, steady and strong, beneath my right hand.
I snatch my hands back. Retreat a step. Put distance between us, even if the bar is crowded and there’s nowhere to hide.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“No need to apologize.” His voice is low, rougher than it was in the classroom. It brushes across my collarbone, my shoulders, and it settles somewhere deep in my belly. “Do you come dancing often?” he asks, and it’s such a normal question, but his tone is playful, flirty.
“No.” I cross my arms. “You?”
“No.” He tilts his head, studying me with those smoldering eyes. “Should we make an occasion of it?”
His hand extends toward me, palm up in invitation.
I stare at it. At the calluses on his palm. At the veins that run up the inside of his wrist and disappear under the rolled sleeve of his flannel.
“You want to dance with me?” I ask like an idiot.
“Yes,” he confirms.
What is happening? This is not the angry father who berated me two days ago. The entitled founding-family cowboy who bulldozed over me with his assumptions and arrogance.
“I’d rather keep my toes intact, thanks,” I say, defaulting to sarcasm. It’s safer than whatever else is trying to claw out of my chest and say yes. A smart mouth should save me from doing something stupid like taking his hand.
He smirks now. Full-on cocky cowboy grin. “I’ll have you know, Miss Rose, that I’m an excellent dancer.”
I raise my eyebrows, skeptical. “Is that so?”
“You don’t believe me?”
A new song starts—high energy, quick tempo, with a driving beat.
Without warning, Ryder steps backward, dancing, claiming the space that had cleared around the fighters for himself.
He shuffles across the floor in a choreographed line dance, boots scraping against the wood in a rhythm that matches the music.
I’m frozen, staring. My jaw hits the ground. Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Ryder’s hips sway. His body flows into the choreography—heel, toe, kick, turn—grapevine steps that carry him in intricate combinations that make his feet blur, a spin that brings him to face me, then away again.
His shoulders bounce as the blue flannel stretches across his back, and those fitted jeans…
I should look away. I really should.
I absolutely don’t.
I’ve never seen anything sexier in my life.
He slaps his thighs in sync with the music. Claps twice.
A wider circle clears around him, dancers stepping back to give him space, and he owns it without self-consciousness or hesitation.
He’s pure, unfiltered confidence. His hair falls forward despite the product holding it in place, one strand dropping over his forehead, and he flicks his head to clear it without missing a beat.
I’m hypnotized.
“Oh my gosh.” Rebecca walks up to me. “Someone told me my brother was putting on a solo performance, and I had to come see if he’d been body-snatched.” She thrusts her drink at me. “Hold this.” I take it automatically, still watching Ryder as Rebecca adds, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
She hops onto the dance floor next to him, falling into step with the complicated choreography.
Ten seconds later, another man with Evans-brown hair—a shade darker, but with the same angular jaw and lean build—slides in on Rebecca’s other side.
The three Evans siblings move in perfect synchronization, and the crowd goes wild.
The routine snakes across the floor, full of spins that would wreck my ankles and direction shifts that demand more coordination than I have. They rotate through positions, Ryder in the center, then Rebecca, then the younger brother, never fumbling the steps. Hand claps, hip swivels, quick turns.
Everyone else has stopped dancing. The floor clears wider, giving them more room to perform. People cheer and clap along to the beat, whistling and shouting encouragement.
I wish I could say I’m watching all three of them, appreciating the ensemble performance.
But Ryder steals my focus and holds it captive with each roll of his hips and the booty wiggles that should be ridiculous but are unapologetically sensual instead.
He’s staring right back at me when he’s not busy turning or executing some complicated footwork. Every time his face is in my direction, his eyes find mine. They hold and burn.
Now I understand those nature documentaries about mating dances. The elaborate displays of prowess meant to attract a partner. Because that’s what this feels like. Like he’s dancing for me. To prove what, I’m not sure.
Why is he doing this? What made him assume, after our last interaction, that it was even vaguely okay to flirt with me? He is flirting, right?
My brain can’t compute.
But if he wanted me to notice him.
Mission frigging accomplished.
Lila bumps her shoulder against mine, leaning in close. “Ryder Evans hasn’t stopped staring at you. Did I miss something?”
“If you did,” I reply, not taking my eyes off him either, “I must’ve missed it too. Because I have no idea what’s happening.”
She sighs, gaze drifting to the younger brother. “Remy has a fantastic ass. Pity he’s such a player. He broke half the hearts in Blue Crescent Harbor.”
I glance at her, catching the wistfulness in her tone. “Do you two have history?”
“No.” Her eyes cloud, and she takes a long sip of her drink.
“The only past I have is with a man who stole my heart when I was sixteen and still hasn’t given it back.
” Lila shakes off the melancholy, grinning.
“Doesn’t mean I can’t admire a great cowboy ass.
Or two.” She elbows me gently. “Ryder is the hottest single dad in town.”
That is an unfortunate truth.
The song ends with a flourish of guitar and drums. The three Evans stop, chests heaving from exertion. And the Moonshine erupts in cheers and applause, people whistling and stomping their feet.
Rebecca takes an exaggerated bow. Remy tips an imaginary hat to a group of women who look ready to eat him alive. And Ryder just stands, chest rising and falling, eyes still on me.
The lead singer of Whiskey Wheelers leans into his microphone. “Let’s hear it for the Evans family, y’all! Best damn impromptu backup dancers we’ve ever had!”
Rebecca whoops, throwing her fists in the air. “Still got it!”
Ryder bows his head, acknowledging the applause with a small nod. Then his eyes lift, locking onto mine again.
The lead singer strums a few slower chords on his guitar. “Alright, folks, time to couple up. We’re slowing things down for you lovebirds.”
The opening notes of a slow ballad fill the bar. Bodies press closer together. The energy shifts from wild to intimate.
And Ryder Evans crosses the floor toward me.
My heart hammers against my ribs as he stops in front of me. He extends his hand again, palm up.
“Now that I’ve proven your toes are safe, will you dance with me?”