Chapter 29 #2
But the words catch, unfinished, my brain can’t quite form them fast enough to keep up with what my body already knows.
“Hot,” Connor interrupts, strolling in behind her with perfect timing. “All of you look hot. What the hell. This is aggressive. I feel underdressed.”
The girls file in one by one. Margo in a silky black jumpsuit, Slone in a green dress that matches her eyes, Lexi in bright coral with cutouts on the side. Yeah, Connor isn’t wrong. They all look hot, but there is only one woman I keep coming back to.
“I feel like I should go back and change,” Wes mutters to Anderson.
Anderson sips his beer. “Doesn’t matter what we wear, buddy. No one’s gonna be looking at us.”
Lexi winks. “If that ain’t the truth.”
“Let’s go,” Slone says, grabbing her purse. “Before anyone melts from all this tension.”
“Speak for yourself,” Connor calls after her. “I thrive in tension.”
The restaurant is one of those lake staples that doesn’t bother advertising itself.
From the outside, it is weathered siding and crooked signage, string lights barely visible in the dusk.
But the moment we step through the doors, the atmosphere shifts.
Open-air seating spills out toward the water, music hums from a small corner stage, and the air is thick with the smell of fried catfish and buttered grills. My stomach answers before I do.
We claim a long table near the railing, the lake stretched out behind it, glowing amber as the sun sinks low. Chairs scrape, people shuffle. Connor moves fast, claiming the seat beside Slone and pulling out her chair like it was never a question. He shoots me a smug look over his shoulder.
Slone smirks but takes the seat anyway. Lexi slides in next to her, Wes claiming the spot on her other side. Rachel ends up beside me, with Margo and Anderson anchoring the far end. Menus are passed. Drinks ordered. Laughter comes easy, overlapping.
Dinner arrives in waves. Blackened fish, pulled pork, shrimp and grits, grilled vegetables. Everything tastes better eaten outdoors, with music humming and the lake breathing quietly behind us.
After we eat, the music swells. A guy with a guitar, a woman with a voice that cuts straight through the noise. She moves through covers like they belong to her—Fleetwood Mac, Ray LaMontagne, even a stripped-down Harry Styles song that slows the table for a beat.
Rachel sips her drink and turns toward me. “So,” she says, tilting her head slightly. “Are you glad you came this weekend?”
I look at her, eyes snagging at the soft curve of her smile. “I should be asking you that.”
“Yeah, Rhett. I’m really happy I came back to this place.”
The music shifts gears. The softness gives way to something warmer, a rhythm with teeth in it.
It rolls through the space and tugs at people without effort.
A couple near the stage stands first. They start slow, bodies angled toward each other, moving like they’ve done this before.
Another pair follows. Then another. Chairs scrape back.
Glasses get abandoned on tabletops. The patio starts to loosen, laughter bleeding into movement.
Anderson stands up first, holding a hand out to Margo. “C’mon,” he says with a lopsided smile. “Let’s show these people how it’s done.”
She laughs, letting him pull her up. “You have never once shown anyone how it’s done.”
“Oh, I beg to differ, Trouble. I remember vividly the first dance we ever shared. And if I’m recalling correctly, it led to a lot of kissing.”
“Maybe you’ll get just as lucky this time.”
They head toward the small dance floor, joining the growing crowd of couples. Suddenly, I’m thankful I didn’t get to hear the rest of their conversation.
Rachel stands and looks over to me. “Let’s go, cowboy,” she says, flicking her fingers at me.
I raise a brow. “Cowboy?”
“Did you think I forgot the mechanical bull incident in college?”
“That’s uncalled for. You pinky promised me you would never speak of that night.” I hold up both hands. “As I remember, you were the one responsible for feeding me Tequila shots and providing me with a very persuasive pep talk to get on that bull.”
“God, that was such a fun night.”
I follow her out to the dance floor as the band starts a new song. She turns to face me and, without any sign of hesitation, slides her hands up around my shoulders.
“Don’t step on my feet,” she says, brows lifting. “I’m wearing sandals. I value my toes.”
“Funny, because I was gonna say the same to you.” I pull her flush with me. “Minus the sandals.”
“I’m serious, Rhett. One wrong move and I lose a toe. I’m too pretty to only have nine toes.”
“Give me the benefit of the doubt, would ya?”
Her fingers slide down my forearm, finding my hand, her thumb brushing lazily over my knuckles.
I guide her around, my palm firm at the small of her back, feeling the slow rise and fall of her breath. She spins effortlessly, her dress swaying, and ends up exactly where I want her. Tucked in close, and a little breathless.
“Oh my God,” she whispers, eyes flicking down, widening.
“What? I swear I didn’t step on any of your toes.”
“You’ve gotten better.”
“Excuse me?”
Her lips curve into a slow, mischievous grin. “I don’t remember you being a good dancer.”
“Well, last time we danced, you were a little tense. I’m not sure you would have let me remind you.”
She lets her head rest against me, her hair brushing my jaw, and I can feel her laughing more than I can hear it. Tiny vibrations that work their way through my ribs.
She tilts her head up. “You still smell like lake water and sunscreen. It’s oddly comforting.”
“That’s just my natural cologne. Eau de Summer.”
She giggles, an actual giggle, and it sends a warm, unexpected jolt through me, curling low in my chest.
We move in easy circles, no big flourishes or steps. I spin her once more just to hear that laugh again, and when she stumbles back into me, I catch her.
“This feels…” she says quietly. “It feels like we were always supposed to end up back here. At this lake.”
“Yeah, I think we were.”
I pull her a little closer. With Rachel, it’s not just about sparks. She is my gravity. We’ve been orbiting each other for most of our lives, and I’ve been waiting a long time to land.
Eventually, we all wander back to the house in loose, sleepy waves. Margo disappears into the room with Anderson. Slone retreats upstairs with a yawn and a wave. One by one, doors click shut.
I unfold the pull-out couch in the den and toss the extra blanket over it. Half-settled, remote still in hand, I notice her before she says a word. Rachel stands in the doorway, oversized sweatshirt draped over her. The same one I gave her ten years ago, after that cold night she forgot a jacket.
“Is that my sweatshirt?”
She nods her head. Her eyes flick to me, then to the pull-out couch, then back to me.
“Something I can help you with, Sunny?” I watch as she crosses the room, pulls back the blanket, and slides in next to me, silent. Her head finds my chest, and I swing my arm around her.
Her hand settles on me, fingers splayed out gently, warm even through the thin cotton of my shirt. It’s nothing dramatic, no grand gesture, but I feel every point of contact.
“Your heart is beating fast, Rhett.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “You have that effect on me.”
I can feel the slow shift in her breathing as sleep starts to pull her under, the weight of her head growing heavier on my shoulder.
And that is when it hits me. We’re different now.