37. Cami
Cami
Wishful Drinking by Ingrid Andress, Sam Hunt
T here’s something about a night in Bridger Falls under the stars that feels like magic.
Maybe it’s the lake, warm and still under the fading sun, a cool breeze coming off the lake.
Maybe it’s the way the fireflies drift like glitter through the pine trees.
Or maybe it’s the fact that Violet and Walker threw the kind of party you only see in movies, complete with fairy lights, a dock stage, famous musicians from their new label, Red Records, and food so good it makes me want to cry.
I’m barefoot on the grass, already one cocktail in, wearing a borrowed red dress from Jenna that slips over my body like it was made for me.
It’s got one strap over my right shoulder, leaving my left shoulder bare.
It has a slit up the thigh, and I feel sexy as hell in this dress.
I’m going to ask her if I can keep it. When I showed up, Violet swore it would “bring him to his knees. ”
She meant Jack. But he’s been across the lawn all night, leaning against a post with a bottle of beer like a cowboy in a cologne ad, doing that broody thing he does, watching me like he wants to worship me and take me home.
And I don’t know which option I want more.
Walker and Violet’s lake house glows with life.
Music spills from the stage, currently a group of Red Records artists doing a bluesy cover of Jolene .
The smell of hickory-smoked sliders and peach-glazed wings wafts from the catering tables, courtesy of Harvest & Honey, and people are dancing in the grass, slipping out of their shoes, hollering along to the lyrics.
“Cami, come taste this cornbread,” Maggie yells, practically dragging me toward the food.
She’s in a boho dress covered in sunflowers, her cheeks sparkling with glitter she applied herself. There’s a daisy tucked behind her ear, and her hands are full, one holding a bourbon cocktail, the other a tiny plate loaded with a butter-drizzled triangle of cornbread.
I take the bite she offers. It’s still warm, buttery, laced with honey and some kind of secret herb I can’t place.
“Holy hell,” I groan, covering my mouth. “So good.”
“I know,” she says smugly, sipping her drink. “If I wasn’t already married to this town, I’d marry this cornbread.”
Beside us, Mack is double-fisting mini cupcakes and deviled eggs like she’s at an eating competition. “I don’t know what’s in these, but I’m getting seconds.”
Maggie has been making sure everyone eats, while handing out tiny bottles of rosé from a cooler labeled Maggie’s Magic Juice . I’ve already had two. I’m not sure what exactly is in them, but they’re good. Could be dangerous, but who cares. We’re having fun tonight.
On the lawn, Poppy and Ollie sway together, slow-dancing to the next song, which is something dreamy and gravelly sung live by one of the artists. The stage lights shimmer off the lake behind her, and she looks like she stepped out of a dream, barefoot and golden-haired and singing her soul out.
Poppy’s arms are looped around Ollie’s neck, and he’s got that look on his face, the one that says I would fight a bear for this woman . His hand drifts low on her back, and her mouth curves like she feels it. Their foreheads brush, eyes locked.
“God, they’re gross,” Mack says around a mouthful of cake. “Are you sure they’re just friends?”
“They’re perfect,” I whisper.
“Yeah, they’re still claiming they’re just friends,” Maggie says and gives me a look like she’s not buying it, either. Poppy and Ollie look very close dancing.
And then I feel it, like a tug on the back of my spine. I turn and find Jack.
Still leaning. Still watching. Still wrecking me with one goddamn look.
He’s in jeans and a black button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbow, forearms flexing just enough to make me forget what I was doing. His hair’s mussed from the breeze, and the shadows from the fairy lights kiss his cheekbones in a way that feels personal.
“Go talk to him,” Maggie hisses.
I swallow. “I’m not?—”
“He’s been staring at you like he wants to ruin that dress.”
I spin to glare at her. “Would you stop reading my mind?”
“I’d rather read his.”
She winks and shoves a bourbon lemonade into my hand. “Liquid courage, baby.”
I take a sip. It’s too strong. It’s perfect.
Across the yard, Weston is tossing bean bags at a cornhole board with a country singer from Red Records who might’ve won a Grammy.
Tucker’s perched on a cooler nearby, flirting with a backup singer wearing boots and a barely-there dress.
Walker and Violet slow dance near the dock, her in his arms like something out of a romantic movie.
The music softens again, turns smokier.
And suddenly, Jack’s there. Like he stepped out of the shadows and directly into my bloodstream.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just takes the drink from my hand and sets it on a nearby table. His fingers brush mine. Sparks.
Then, with that deep, velvet voice, he says, “Dance with me.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“Do it anyway. The last time you danced with me was Homecoming. You were seventeen, and you spilled Coke on my boots.”
“You kissed me behind the bleachers.”
“And I haven’t wanted to kiss anyone else since.”
That shuts me up. I’ve thought about that night and that kiss more times than I will ever admit to anyone.
He holds out a hand. I take it.
The wooden stage creaks under our weight as he leads me to the edge, where fairy lights glint off the lake like a mirror full of stars.
The music plays on, slow and sexy and meant for trouble.
Jack pulls me close, one hand sliding around my waist, the other gripping my hand like he won’t let go even if the world ends.
“Did you do this on purpose?” he murmurs.
“What?”
“This dress. That look in your eye.”
“You think this is for you?” I tease as I smile at him, not able to hold it back.
He leans in. “I hope it is. ”
I hate how much I melt. Hate how my knees feel like they might go out if he says one more thing in that voice.
“I’m still going to give you hell,” I say, trying to be brave.
“I know,” he murmurs, pulling me closer.
“I still think you’re impossible.”
“I know that too,” he grins.
His hand moves down, skimming the open back of my dress, fingertips grazing bare skin. “And I still want you every second of every day.”
My breath catches.
We sway to the music, the rest of the world disappearing. It’s just him and me and the heat between us, undeniable, dangerous, stupid.
His breath hits my cheek, then my jaw, then lower. My heart pounds.
“Jack,” I whisper.
“Yeah?”
“If you kiss me again…”
“I won’t stop this time,” he finishes.
His eyes are heavy on mine, like gravity and sin and all the things I swore I’d never let myself want again.
He leans in, then he turns back to me. “Where were we?”
I raise a brow. “You were about to make a terrible decision.”
He leans in again, slower this time. “Then let’s at least make it together.”
And when his lips meet mine, everything else fades. The stars. The music. The chaos of Bridger Falls behind us.
All I know is the way he kisses me, slow and deep and with every ounce of tension we’ve been holding back. His hands grip my waist like he can’t help it. Like I’m not something he’s choosing, but something he needs.
It’s not sweet. It’s not polite. It’s desperate. And real. And everything .
When we finally break apart, breathless, his forehead rests against mine.
“You’re dangerous,” I whisper.
“So are you.”
Then, softly: “You were always the one, Cami.”
And for once, I don’t argue.
Not when the stars are overhead, the lake laps at the dock beneath us, and the whole town is losing their minds behind us.
Maybe we’re a little reckless. But damn, it feels like fate.
We stay like that, pressed together in the soft sway of music and lake wind, the rest of the town a blur behind us.
Jack doesn’t speak, and neither do I, not when silence says more than we know how to.
It’s the kind of quiet where a person can fall in love and not even realize they’ve done it until it’s already too late.
Eventually, someone shouts, “Get off the damn stage, you’re making us all feel bad for being single!”
It’s Tucker. Of course it’s Tucker.
“Eat a cupcake and cry about it,” I call back, not even glancing away from Jack.
He smirks. “How does it feel to be in love with me, Wilder?”
“I think it feels pretty good.” My heart lurches. God, he’s dangerous like this—smiling at me like I hung the moon, like I’ve never broken his heart and he’s never broken mine. And for a second, I think he might kiss me again.
But the music picks up, a faster beat now. We move back toward the lawn, hand in hand, though neither of us says a word about it.
Violet appears out of nowhere, breathless and radiant. Her hair’s up in a loose twist, glitter on her collarbone, a champagne flute in one hand and Walker’s flannel tied around her waist. “You two looked like a music video .”
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” I murmur .
“Oh, it is,” she says. “The kind where everyone ends up making out on the tailgate.”
Jack coughs. “I’ll let you two talk,” he says, but his fingers trail down my arm before he walks away—just enough touch to make me crazy all over again.
Violet watches him go, then turns back to me. “Girl.”
“I know.”
“No, girl .”
“I know ,” I groan, fanning myself.
“Do you? Because that man just looked at you like you’re his reason for existing.”
“I’ve seen him look at bacon the same way.”
“Not with that much heat.”
We both dissolve into giggles, champagne sloshing, as Weston walks past with two margaritas and a cowboy hat he definitely did not show up wearing.
“Where did you get that hat?” Violet asks.
He doesn’t even slow down. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”
Maggie, now halfway into a red feather boa she absolutely wasn’t wearing before, climbs up on the dock with a plastic microphone and shouts, “Karaoke in ten minutes! Come prepared to sing!”
“She’s drunk on life,” Violet whispers.
“More like drunk on Maggie juice,” I say.
“Same thing, really.”
Poppy and Ollie walk by, flushed and glowing. She’s got her shoes in one hand, and he’s got his jacket slung over her shoulders.
“You okay?” she asks me, tilting her head.
I nod. “Yeah. I think I’m—yeah.”
She gives me a look. That I know you better than anyone and you’re definitely lying but I’m not gonna call you on it yet kind of look.
Then: “You’re in it deep, huh?”
I shrug. “I always was.”
Ollie ruffles my hair as they pass. “Don’t overthink it. You deserve a little good.”
And God, wouldn’t it be nice to believe that?
I drift toward the edge of the party, toes curling in the grass.
The lights shimmer in the lake’s reflection.
A couple little kids are petting a few baby goats, shrieking with laughter.
Someone’s set up a s’mores table, and Weston is roasting marshmallows for two very starstruck girls who can’t stop staring at him like he invented cowboy boots.
Elena and Logan are dancing, and I wave to them, and they wave back.
“Some good things came out of the show. Love that Logan and Elena are moving here.”
He nods, “Yeah, it’ll be nice to have them.”
The music dips again, another slow track echoing across the water.
“Want to dance, Wilder?”
I spin, heart stuttering.
Jack’s back.
And this time, he doesn’t wait for me to answer. He just pulls me in again, slower, closer, his body pressed to mine like he belongs there.
“We already danced,” I whisper.
“This is a second chance dance.”
“Thought you didn’t believe in those.”
“I didn’t,” he says. “But I do now.”
My heart slams against my ribs. And I’m about to say something—something dangerous, something real , when Beau and Jenna walk by again, still holding hands.
Jack mutters, “Jesus. ”
Then adds, “You know what this means, right?”
“What?”
“You and me aren’t the most scandalous thing happening anymore.”
I laugh, soft and startled. “We never were.”
He tilts his head. “Maybe not. But we were always the real thing.”
And suddenly the air shifts. The mood changes. He’s not teasing anymore.
“Cami,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to pretend you’re not feeling this.”
I look up at him. “It’s not about that. It’s about all the ways this could go wrong.”
His hands tighten on my waist. “Then let it go wrong. Let it be messy. But don’t walk away from it.”
Emotion swells in my throat.
The firelight dances over his face, catching in the flecks of green in his eyes, and I think, this is how it happens .
This is how girls fall in love with cowboys.
In the middle of a party, with music playing and the scent of summer on the breeze, and the boy you’ve always loved holding you like he’d burn down the world to keep you safe.
I don’t know how long we stand there like that, maybe a minute, maybe a lifetime.
Eventually, Maggie shouts, “Jack and Cami, you’re up next for karaoke!”
We both groan.
“I am not singing,” I say.
“Oh, you are ,” she calls back, waving the mic in one hand and her drink in the other. “And if you don’t, I’m gonna get Weston to sing ‘Pink Pony Club’ again, and we all remember what happened last time. ”
Jack sighs, tugging me toward the stage. “Come on, Wilder. Let’s show ‘em what we’ve got.”
I dig my heels in. “Absolutely not. I draw the line at public humiliation.”
But I’m laughing. And I let him drag me anyway.
Because that’s the thing about Jack Jessop.
He feels like home.