Chapter 32
PEYTON
Tequila burns a bright trail down my throat, chasing the warmth already pooling in my stomach from the first two shots.
I slam the empty glass on the bar next to Emma’s and Lila’s, and the three of us erupt into laughter.
It bubbles up from nowhere and everywhere, fueled by lime and salt and by being somewhere loud and anonymous with people who don’t expect me to be anyone but myself.
Emma signals for the barman—Dale, Lila called him earlier—to pour another round. He lines up three fresh glasses and fills them in a row, not concerned with the liquor that sloshes over the counter.
My best friend distributes the shots, her devil horns slightly askew, her red lipstick still somehow perfect.
She lifts her glass. “A toast!”
“To what?” I ask.
“When you told me you were marrying Liam because he had a cool best friend, I thought you were batshit crazy.”
“Emma!” I hiss, glancing around. “Keep your voice down!”
But the live band is loud, the bass is thumping through the floorboards, and no one is paying attention to us.
“But now that I have met Lila.” She gestures at our ghost lady. “I certify that she is, in fact, the coolest. Your assessment was legit.”
Lila preens, her pale makeup cracking around her grin. “I like her,” she tells me.
“She’s tolerable,” I say.
Emma whoops. We clink our glasses with a satisfying chime and throw back the shots in unison. The burn is familiar now, almost comfortable. I set my glass down and reach for a lime wedge, sucking on it to cut the fire.
I squeeze my eyes shut against the citrussy sting, and when I open them again, a man has planted himself in front of us.
He is tall. Six-two, maybe more. He’s wearing jeans, a flannel shirt rolled at the sleeves to expose tanned forearms, and broken-in cowboy boots. His hair is a luxurious chestnut brown, longish, falling past his ears in unkept waves, and his irises are a deep, dark blue that tugs at a memory.
Where have I seen those eyes before?
“Hey, Lila,” he drawls.
“Hey,” she shoots back.
“Are you not introducing me to your friends?”
“No way. I’m pretty sure you’re under a city-wide recall for breaking too many hearts.”
The man grins, unfazed. He has pouty, full lips. His jaw is aggressively square. And his teeth are white and straight, save for a single crooked one in the front—a lone act of rebellion against otherwise facial perfection. He belongs on the cover of a dusty country music album.
“I come in peace.” He holds up both hands in surrender, then lets his gaze sweep over our trio. “A kitten. A devil. And a ghost. Which one of you should I be most scared of?”
Emma tilts her head. “Are you supposed to be dressed up as a cowboy?”
He makes a face—mock-wounded, stupidly charming. “This is what I wear every day. But now that you’ve insulted my clothes…” He leans against the bar, angling toward Emma and holding her gaze a second too long, perfectly aware of how good he looks. “How are you going to make it up to me?”
I laugh. I can’t help it. The tequila has loosened me up, and the guy’s lines are so cheesy they loop back around to endearing. Emma, however, is not laughing. She looks about ready to reap his soul.
“Why don’t you start”—she drags her words—“by telling us your name?”
“Remy Evans.”
Ah, now the twilight eyes click in place.
He must be Rebecca’s younger brother. I didn’t end up meeting him at the festival and he didn’t come to the football game.
I’ve barely made the connection when a prickle of awareness spider-walks down my spine.
I sense Liam coming a second before he slides up beside me and wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me close.
He doesn’t even give me time to say hi. He cups my cheek with his other hand, tilting my face toward his.
And then he kisses me.
It’s not a polite hello. Liam kisses me like we’re back in the corn maze with no one watching and not in a crowded bar full of people.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth, hot and demanding. The hand on my hip tightens, pulling me flush against him. I grab the front of his letterman jacket—that stupid, sexy football jacket I told him not to wear—and hold on as the floor tilts beneath my feet.
When he pulls back, I’m breathless. Dizzy. My lips are swollen.
Liam turns to face Remy, keeping me tucked against his side.
“Hey, man.” His voice is casual, friendly, completely at odds with the territorial display he just put on. “I see you’ve met my wife.”
Remy’s eyes go wide. He takes a deliberate step backward and holds up his hands.
“Congrats, man.” He looks between us, surprised. “I’d heard you got hitched, but I didn’t realize—” He trails off, glancing at me. “Welcome to town, err…”
“Peyton,” I supply, still butterflying from the kiss.
Remy nods and turns his full attention to Emma, unleashing a panty-dropping grin on her and pointing his beer bottle at her. “Now I’m only missing your name.”
To my best friend’s honor, she doesn’t capitulate right away. She smirks back. “You’re gonna have to work harder for that, cowboy.”
The younger Evans doesn’t look like someone who backs down from a challenge.
While Remy turns his full charm offensive on my best friend—and Emma seems more than happy to be conquered—I grab Liam’s hand and tug him away from the bar.
“Mind if we talk, hubby?”
He nods and unexpectedly pulls me onto the dance floor.
The band has moved on to a slower ballad that makes it easy to sway together with no real dancing skills. Liam’s hands come around me, holding me from the small of my back while I loop my arms behind his neck.
The tequila hums in my blood. The warmth of his body seeps through my costume.
I smile at him teasingly. “Someone got jealous.”
“I wasn’t jealous.”
“Really? Then what was that?”
“Me saving Remy Evans from making a fool of himself.”
“Mmm,” I hum. “How generous of you.”
“I’m very altruistic.”
“You know, it’d be okay if you were a bit jealous.” I tilt my head, studying his face. “I mean, if I saw you talking to a babe in a bar, I’d be jealous too.”
His eyes snap to mine. “You think Remy is a babe?”
I scoff-chuckle. “Everyone with eyes thinks Remy is a babe. I bet Emma is considering saving a horse tonight.”
Liam frowns. “What?”
“Save a horse… ride a cowboy?”
His grip on me tightens, his hand pressing harder against the small of my back, as he draws me closer until no space is left between us.
I grin up at him. “Are you sure you’re not a teensy bit jealous?”
“Why do you want to know?”
The tequila has made me brave. Or stupid. Probably both.
“Look,” I say, “I know we’re not really married. I mean, we are, legally, but we’re not—whatever. This isn’t a real relationship. And I’m a little tipsy right now, so maybe this is dumb, but—” I take a breath. “Fuck it. I think I like you.”
His shoulders go rigid under my arms.
“If you asked me out on a date,” I continue, the alcohol loosening my tongue, “I’d say yes.
And I’d want you to kiss me at the end of the night.
” The dazed grin that spreads across Liam’s face gives me more courage than any liquor ever could.
“And if we weren’t already living together…
I’d struggle not to invite you in after that kiss.
But I wouldn’t. Because I’d want the relationship not to be just about sex. ”
“How can you be so open about your feelings?” he asks. “Aren’t you worried I’d say I’m not interested?”
“Well.” I shrug despite the way my pulse is hammering in my throat. “The fact that you walked into the bar and practically branded my ass with a giant ‘Property of Liam Rockwood’ stamp gave me a confidence boost.”
Liam throws his head back and laughs. The sound is rich, warm, and full, and it burns in my stomach worse than tequila.
“I’d love to take you on a date,” he says when he stops laughing. His hand slides up my spine, fingers splaying between my shoulder blades. “Asking you out was actually my plan tonight. Before Emma showed up.”
My stomach swooshes, plunging like a rollercoaster cresting its first hill.
“And I’d die to kiss you goodnight at the end of the date too,” he continues, his voice dropping lower. “And if you didn’t invite me in—”
He releases my hand to spin me out in a turn. The room blurs, the lights streaking across my vision, and then he’s pulling me back, closer than before, my chest pressed flush against his.
“—I wouldn’t mind,” he finishes, his lips brushing my ear. “Because I wouldn’t want it to be only about sex either.”
My breath catches.
We’ve stopped pretending to dance. We’re standing in the middle of the floor, holding each other, while the music swells around us and the crowd moves in patterns we’re no longer part of.
I look up at him—at the sharp cut of his jaw, the gray of his eyes gone silver in the dim light, the curve of his lips.
Then I stand on my tiptoes and kiss my husband.