19. Brynn
Chapter nineteen
Brynn
“ M aybe we should stay in. I’ll text Tuck and Cam.” Griffin’s eyes are dark with desire, his voice thick, as I descend the stairs.
“You will not.” I spin when I get to the bottom. “How’s my honky-tonk fit?”
He catalogs every detail: my new black leather boots, my flirty black dress with the ruffle at the hem, and the rolled-up sleeves of the fitted tan-and-black plaid button-down I’ve knotted at my waist. My hair is half pulled up into a messy knot, with the rest in loose waves down my back.
He takes my hand and twirls me, then he pulls me in for a kiss. “You’re perfect.”
“Let me check out my handsome date.” I smooth my hand down the navy-and-hunter plaid flannel he’s wearing unbuttoned over a navy Henley. His sleeves are rolled up, too, and the forearms on display are doing things to my pulse. Peeking out from below his jeans is a pair of worn brown boots.
“Do I pass inspection?”
“With flying colors.” I slip my arms beneath his plaid shirt and lean into him, savoring his body heat and manly scent. “And now that I know Racy Lacey owns a pair of cowboy boots, my life is complete. ”
His sigh is heavy. “I haven’t worn the damn things in years. My feet rebelled the second I slipped them on. But that won’t stop me from dancing with my girl.”
Across the room, Donna clears her throat and waves her phone. She doesn’t let us leave until she’s snapped at least a dozen photos, like we’re a couple of teenagers headed to a school dance. It’s adorable.
On the drive into town, a fizzy sensation coats my stomach. This day will go down in history as one of the all-time best. Not only did Griff introduce me as his girlfriend to folks around town, but then I caught him sneaking two boot boxes into the truck and, when I chided him, he said, “Get used to being spoiled, professor.” After boot shopping, we returned to the farm and spent a couple of hours outdoors. While Fred showed me the animals, he kindly answered all my ridiculous questions about farm life, all the while teasing me about being a city girl. More than once, Griff looked dumbstruck at how chatty his father was with me.
After the farm tour, Mrs. Lacey pulled out the baby Griffin scrapbooks, and we sat side by side on the couch, cooing and laughing at every one of his awkward stages. Griff kicked back in the recliner and pretended to be annoyed, but I caught his secret, pleased smiles as he scrolled on his phone.
We arrive at the Hoot ’N’ Holler a little after eight, finding the parking lot mostly full. I get a finger wiggle as we navigate the crowd surrounding the bar, so I take his hand and follow as he leads me to where Tucker and Cam have secured a six-top table.
Our table is one of many surrounding three sides of a wooden dance floor. The fourth side features a small stage, where a band is warming up. One step up from our level, rows of wooden booths overlook the dance floor. The bar takes up the whole left side of the building. The place is wall-to-wall rustic honky-tonk decor: neon signs, corrugated metal, rough wooden beams. Scattered throughout are framed black-and-white posters of several music legends: Johnny Cash, Elvis, Dolly, and Tina Turner, to name a few. One wall is covered with old license plates from several states. And above the bar, a huge neon sign that says Holleration Nation glows.
The legs of my wooden chair scuff across the concrete floor when Griffin grabs one to pull me closer. He leans in so I can hear him over the crowd and the band that’s warming up on stage. “You good to stay here while I grab drinks?”
As I nod, Trixie bounds up on the arm of a stoic Shaw.
“Look what I rustled up at the bar, folks.” She sinks into a chair and pulls him down into the one beside it. Eyes twinkling, she hollers, “Saved this one’s life, I tell ya. He had no less than five vixens eyeing him up, claws drawn, ready to pounce. Not all heroes wear capes.” She flounces her wavy shoulder-length copper locks and gives her cousin a wink.
Cam knocks his beer against the one in Shaw’s hand. “Yeehaw here might draw a bigger crowd than this one.” He points the neck of the bottle at Griffin. “They’ll come out in droves for such a rare sight.”
As Shaw rolls his eyes and takes a pull of his beer, I study him. Like his younger brothers, the man is devastatingly handsome, though his looks are more rugged, gruff. In his chambray button-down and beat-up Lacey Farms ball cap pulled low over mysterious blue eyes, it’s no wonder the ladies flock to him. As I consider him, the name that’s etched next to his on the Heart Path comes to mind. I know better than to ask, so I stick with a topic I hope is a little safer.
“Yeehaw?”
Trixie smirks. “Yeehaw Shaw.”
“Trix,” Shaw warns.
His cousin perks up, wiggling in her chair. “This stud was something of a legend on the youth rodeo circuit when he was in high school. Earned himself several gold buckles and a nickname, to boot. Pun intended.” She laughs at her own joke.
“All in favor of resurrecting Shaw’s nickname?” Cam raises his beer and grins.
The eldest Lacey brother doesn’t even acknowledge Cam, Trixie, and Tucker as they raise their hands. Instead, he homes in on Griffin, who’s standing behind me, passing along some unspoken message. His voice holds the grit of sandpaper when he says, “Veto.”
“Lacey family rules,” the three vetoed nickname supporters recite dejectedly.
Griffin palms the crown of Tucker’s backward ball cap. “Help me carry the drinks.”
The two get as far as the booths before they’re both swarmed with locals who pat their backs and ask for pictures.
When I spin back to the table, Trixie is grinning. “Ugh, can’t take them any where.”
A young waitress wearing denim cutoffs and a tight black tank with If You Ain’t Hootin’, You Ain’t Hollerin’ printed in white across the chest steps up with a tray full of beers. “These are from Dottie,” she explains as she offloads the bottles. Once her tray is empty, she tucks a lock of her long, blond hair behind an ear and fixes a flirty smile on the oldest Lacey. “Hey, Shaw.”
“Hey.” That single word is low and gruff, but it brings a pink tinge to the girl’s cheeks.
There’s a moment of awkward silence before Cam puts the poor girl out of her misery. “Thanks for bringing these over, Suzie.”
“No problem. You folks have fun.” She smiles at the table and gives Shaw one final look, then she sashays away.
“See what I mean?” Trixie takes a swig of beer and sets it on the table with a clatter. “A sweet, twenty-two-year-old who could have her pick of almost any dude in here. Yet, she sets her sights on this old man.”
Shaw rests his forearms on the table. “Thirty-six makes me an old man, huh?”
Trixie huffs a laugh, but her response is cut off when her mom appears at her side, wiping her hands on the seat of her jeans. “Mama!” She beams and leans into her mother, who smacks a kiss to her cheek. “The place is hoppin’ tonight.”
Dottie rounds the table to greet each of us. “Tell me about it. Half the bar has joined Griff and Tuck’s fan club, so I thought I’d sneak away while they’re occupied.” Dottie gives Shaw an affectionate pat on the head. “My favorite nephew,” she declares as he lets her sneak a kiss to his stubbled cheek.
“Aw, I thought I was your favorite,” Cam whines next to Shaw.
Dottie rounds Shaw and tugs on Cam’s ear. “You are my favorite.” Cam dons a smug smile, but it melts into a scowl when she follows that up with “My favorite pain in the ass.”
Trixie barks a loud “Ha!”
Then it’s my turn. Griffin’s aunt sidles up beside me and squeezes my shoulders. “Brynn. It’s so good to see you again, hon.”
“You, too.” I peer up at her. “This place is amazing.”
She scans the crowd, her lips tipping up. “Yeah, my John would be proud as punch to see it so packed.” She plants a final kiss on her daughter’s head. “You kids have fun tonight.” Before she walks off, she taps Shaw’s shoulder. “Don’t let this one have too many.”
Trixie joins her mother in her teasing. “Lightweight,” she singsongs.
Shaw’s only response, as if he’s used to it, is a shake of the head.
The band, finally warmed up, starts playing in earnest.
“That’s my cue,” Trixie announces as she pops up from her chair. She saunters to the stage, hips swaying, and takes up a microphone. And when she belts out the opening line to a Shania Twain song that entices a large group to the dance floor, I gape .
Shaw chuckles at my bewildered expression and cranes his neck, taking in the stage. “Trix sings with the band most weekends. Wait until you hear her take on Reba.”
My jaw drops farther, this time because of the quiet man across from me. He hasn’t spoken that many consecutive words to me since we met. Heck, I’m not sure he’s spoken that many total.
Tucker and Griffin finally return, arms laden with drinks. They give identical shrugs when they notice the new round of bottles that arrived while they were gone and add their haul to the mix.
“I didn’t know Trixie sang,” I say to Griff when he settles in his seat.
“Yeah, she’s great, right?” He rests his arm on the back of my chair and traces small circles on my shoulder as we listen.
Cam turns his chair around, ignoring the group. Only a few bars in, he’s transfixed on the talented redhead with the microphone.
The youngest Lacey looks from me to Cam and back again, then gives me a wink. “Griff, you gonna get your girl out there or should I offer to take her for a spin?” Tuck wags his brows and gives his brother an antagonizing grin.
Griff chucks a bottle cap at his brother’s chest, then he clutches my hand. “Promised you a two-step, professor,” he calls over his shoulder as he leads me to the edge of the dance floor.
The second our feet touch the smooth, wooden planks, hundreds of eyes find us, scrutinizing. If I look out at the crowd, I’m sure I’ll see dozens of cell phones raised, recording our every move.
For the first time since we went public, the pressure of being the center of attention weighs on me, like I’m wading into a lake with rocks in my pockets. My legs lock, and my muscles tense.
He pivots back, studying my face with a concerned frown.
“I don’t know how.” As panic claws its way up my throat, I gather my hair off my neck and drape it over my shoulder. “And everyone’s watching. ”
He steps into me, rests his large hands on my collarbone, and lifts my chin with his thumbs. I grip his forearms and inch into the safety of his powerful frame.
His eyes are a grayish green in the dim lighting as they search my face. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. Say the word, and we’ll head straight back to our seats. But if your fear stems from the phones pointed our way, then we need to figure that out. Because it will happen again. As much as I hate that you’ll experience it over and over, it comes with the territory. But I told you—I’m not keeping you a secret.”
His voice is firm, but his gaze is gentle. He’s right; when I agreed to be his, I understood that unrelenting attention from strangers was part of it. So I’ll keep my focus on him alone, because he makes me brave.
He’s been doing it since we met.
“Do you want me to teach you the two-step?” Now his voice is a soft caress.
I nod as much as his hold allows.
“Good.” He presses his lips to mine and holds them there, proving his point—he’s not hiding us. “You, professor, are an amazing badass who can do anything you set your mind to. Let’s channel your inner Eleri and go kick some ass on this dance floor.”
I laugh, and my heart stumbles a little at his reference to the tough, bold witch character in my dragon story.
He guides me to the center of the floor where we won’t block other couples and faces me, holding my hands in his. “The two-step is basically a pattern of steps. Two quick, two slow. And we do those steps in a giant circle.” He tilts his head to the chain of couples circling around us. “I’ll start off with my left foot.” He brings it forward, and I automatically step back with my right. “Yep, you’ll start with the right. Aunt Dot taught us that ladies start with their right feet because they’re always right . ”
An ounce of my trepidation drains from me as I smile up at him. “Aunt Dot is a wise woman.”
His responding chuckle is a tonic for my soul, allowing me to roll my shoulders back and shed the cloak of nerves I wore out here.
“That she is. Now…” He places my left hand on his shoulder and puts his right on my back. “Rest your elbow on my arm. Yep, like that. And we’ll hold these hands like this.”
“Oh my gosh.” I giggle. “This feels like Johnny teaching Baby in Dirty Dancing .”
He presses his mouth to my ear. “We’ll save our dirty dancing for the bedroom, professor.”
Holy hell. Liquid heat pools in my belly so intensely I have to fight the urge to fan myself.
He pulls away, smirking. “You ready?”
“I think so.” I lower my chin to watch his steps so I’ll know when to make mine.
“Uh-uh,” he chides. “Don’t look down. Keep your eyes on me.”
Keep your eyes on me.
It’s as easy as breathing, because his face has become my beacon. His arms are my safe shelter. His touch is my motivation. And his heart is my home.
I follow his lead around the dancefloor while his soft chants of quick-quick, slow…slow guide my every step. As we move, I don’t glance at our feet or the other couples or the crowd of onlookers. No, I keep my eyes on the man I’ve fallen for, and everything else fades away.
Before I know it, the song is over and the crowd erupts in applause. Trixie speaks, her honeyed voice echoing through the speakers around the space. “All right, we’re gonna slow things down with this next song. It’s one of my favorites, and tonight, it goes out to number 89 and his lovely lady.”
As a round of wolf whistles and cheers fill the air, she winks at us. Then the keyboard player starts playing a slow tune, and when her beautiful voice belts out the first notes of “Sunday Kind of Love,” Griffin wraps me in his arms, and we sway to the melody.
Lost in each other, but at the same time found .
“ Baby ,” Griffin pleads from behind the wheel. “You’re making this a bigger deal than it is.”
Arms crossed, I keep my focus fixed out the passenger window. I refuse to look at him. I’ve maintained this position since we got in the truck fifteen minutes ago. It’s a miracle I could even look his parents in the eye as they hugged me goodbye and made me promise to come back soon. I was so mortified it didn’t even register that Shaw actually gave me a brief side hug until after we’d pulled out of their driveway.
Griffin grasps my arm and tugs, but all the move does is make me glare harder and inch my body closer to the door.
Though when my boyfriend chuckles under his breath, I turn my glare his way.
“How is this funny to you, Griffin Lacey?”
His mouth curves in a sinful smile. “I regret nothing.”
Indignation and shame burn hot in my gut. “Ugh.”
“I gotta say, I’ve never seen this side of you.”
“Pissed off?”
“No. A tiny bit ridiculous.”
Teeth gritted, I suck in a sharp breath. “You’re calling me ridiculous?”
He pinches his thumb and forefinger together. “A tiny bit.”
Huffing, I swivel back to the soybeans. As we drive through downtown Holly Holler on our way home, I will myself to think only of the wonderful memories we made here this weekend. It’s no use. All those beautiful moments keep getting interrupted by what transpired in the Laceys’ kitchen this morning .
More specifically, in their pantry.
After Donna made a huge breakfast, complete with Griffin’s favorite biscuits and gravy, as well as french toast—a gesture that made me tear up—everyone trekked out to the barn to check out a new litter of kittens. Griffin wanted to show me the horses next, but he wanted to give them peppermints, so he and I hiked back to the house alone.
What happened next will go down in history as Brynn’s Most Embarrassing Moment Ever, and despite my best efforts to block the scene out, my brain unspools the memories like a roll of film:
The unorganized walk-in pantry is stuffed to the gills. The cans of vegetables are distributed willy-nilly, and there are boxes of crackers stuck between containers of flour and sugar. Next to an unopened jar of olives, I find two bags of noodles and a pack of batteries.
“Do you see them?” I peer over my shoulder to check Griffin’s progress, only to find him staring at my ass with heated eyes.
“These jeans are fucking sexy.” He spins me around, pulls me to his torso, and slips his hands in my back pockets.
“They’re mom jeans,” I laugh. But the nearness of him, his intoxicating scent, and his broad palms cupping my backside are a heady combination.
“Mmm, I don’t care what kind they are. I want them shoved to your ankles so I can see how wet I can make you.” He nuzzles my neck, sucking that spot below my earlobe that drives me crazy.
Every word, every move, heats my body further. Somehow, though, I have the presence of mind to pull the door closed behind him.
Good thing, because the second his lips touch mine, we’re a perfect storm of hot kisses and sensual groping and heavy breathing.
Griffin backs me into the shelves with enough force to knock a small box off the top one, but we’re too occupied to care. We’re fused together, and his arousal is evident. He wedges a thigh between my legs to shift me higher and slips a hand under my sweater. I loop my arms around his neck to give him better access, and when his thumb finds a nipple through the satin of my bra, and he circles it through the fabric, I nip at his bottom lip. With a grunt, he tucks the cup below my breast, and the skin-to-skin contact on the sensitive tip sends a rush of dampness to my panties.
He kisses his way along my jaw and down my neck, hot presses of his mouth that scorch my fevered flesh. When he squeezes my nipple between his fingers, I whimper and circle my hips, searching for friction, desperate to ease the ache between my legs.
Griffin releases a growl of frustration and jerks my sweater up, exposing the breast he’s been working over. And when his warm mouth latches on to it, I dig my fingers into his hair, holding him there, all while fighting the urge to push him away, because this is too much.
This is all too much.
Thoughts like this is wrong and we shouldn’t be doing this in his parents’ pantry and what if someone hears us? flash through my mind, but the quiver between my thighs forces them out as quick as they enter.
When he laves my nipple, I grope the ridge of hardness in his jeans, stroking the denim with enough pressure to make his grunts more frequent.
He releases my breast, and as he pants against it, his hot puffs cause goose bumps to pebble my skin. The intense blue of his irises and the gravel in his voice send me reeling. “Take it, baby,” he rasps, the demand impossible to ignore, so I increase my speed, riding his leg, rolling my hips. “Grind that sweet little pussy all over me until you get there.”
He resumes sensual pulls on my nipple, each tug making the pulse between my legs more intense.
“Oh, God, Griff…” I press my head back against the edge of a shelf and cling to his biceps, rocking faster. The seam of my jeans and his rock-hard thigh are the perfect combination against my clit. The tightening and throb in my lower muscles prove that my release is so, so close.
He gives my nipple a final lick and brings his mouth back to mine, his lips demanding and unyielding as they take control.
I close my eyes as the waves begin. They’re shallow at first, but when he presses his lips to my ear and rumbles “ Come ,” I drown in pure ecstasy, and they crest over me, bursts of pleasure pulsing throughout my body.
When I come down, I open my eyes to find a smug smile gracing Griffin’s reddened lips. He holds my waist to keep me upright, and I tip my forehead to his chest to catch my breath.
“I’m the luckiest fucker on the planet to have a front-row seat to that .” With a kiss to my hair, he lowers his thigh so my feet touch down. My legs are jelly, my boob is still out, and my cheeks and chin and chest are probably red from his beard, but all I can think about is returning the favor. I want—no, need —to make him come.
Orgasms clearly make me bold and reckless, because once I’ve straightened my bra and sweater, I lower to my knees, kiss the outline of his hard bulge, and pop open the button on his jeans.
“Fuck, baby—” Eyes wide, he braces a hand on a shelf.
I’m so lust-crazed that I don’t register the faint scuffs on the other side of the door until it’s too late. I’ve just lowered his zipper and am reaching into his boxers as the pantry door bursts open.
“Oh, shit!” Tucker curses before he spins away.
“Goddamn it, Tuck.” Griffin hauls me to my feet and crushes my body to his.
Though I want to bury myself in my boyfriend’s chest and never come out, I press my cheek to his pecs so I can see Tucker’s back. When his shoulders bounce in silent laughter, I blurt, “You promised to knock on the doors.”
He whips around, red-faced but grinning. “You expected me to knock on the pantry door?”
Shaw and their parents choose this moment to come inside. They freeze when they notice the guilt marring all of our features.
“What’s wrong?” Mrs. Lacey looks from one son to the other, then at me.
“Tucker—” Griffin growls, pure threat.
The youngest Lacey relaxes against the counter and crosses his inked arms. “Just caught Brynn with her hand in the cookie jar.”
Under his breath, Griff mumbles “Fuck.”
Oblivious, Mrs. Lacey says, “She can have as many cookies as she wants.”
My skin blazes hotter than the sun, and I beg the universe for a rewind button. I can’t bear to peek at his parents, but I don’t miss Shaw’s smirk before I bury my face in Griffin’s chest again. Tucker’s low chuckles cease when his brother grabs a package from a shelf and pelts him with it.
“Ow, fucker. That hurt.”
Mr. Lacey says, “Language.”
And against the warmth of Griff’s soft hoodie, I mouth “Lacey family rules” as the three brothers chant it out loud.
Still in disbelief that a weekend of so many highs ended like that , I sigh and fix my gaze on the road ahead. I can feel Griffin’s concern, but I’m still too caught up in my embarrassment to start a conversation.
He clears his throat. “What can I do to make this better?”
The soothing tone of his voice earns my attention. But when a corner of his mouth kicks up, I’m back to being irritable.
“Could you invent a time machine so we can travel back to before I dry humped your leg in your parents’ pantry?”
His lips twitch. “I mean, that is where the dry goods are kept, so…”
Annoyance courses through my veins. “Not helping.”
“Got it.” He lifts a hand from the steering wheel and mimes locking his lips.
We’re silent for a couple of miles, but the burn in my throat becomes too much. “I’m sorry I’m being an inconsolable brat. I just really, really want your family to like me, and—”
“Brynn.” He cuts me off. “Hear me when I say this: they fucking adore you.”
My heart pangs, and my voice comes out small and unsure. “Really?”
“Absolutely. Even if you owe their son and brother a blow job.”
“Ugh.” I smack him with the back of my hand, then cross my arms again.
Griffin’s charming, unbothered smile brightens. “I know what you need.”
He taps a few buttons on the dash touchscreen, and as the twangy intro to “Jackson” blares through the speakers, he bobs his head and shoulders to the beat. He warbles along with Johnny Cash, voice deep, making it impossible not to smile. Though I do my best to hide it.
“C’mon, you gotta sing June’s part.” He holds an invisible microphone in front of my mouth.
His wild joy is so infectious, I can’t help but give in. The shame from earlier is forgotten as my grin breaks free, and I croon along, happy to be so in sync with the man beside me.