You Were Mine (Rosemary Beach #9)(34)

He winked at me. “I’m always careful.”

I laughed and walked back to our table. Dean was sitting there with Nate, and they had taken the spoons from the table and were using them as drumsticks. Nate was listening carefully to his grandfather’s explanations about how to keep the beat.

Rush and Blaire were still on the dance floor. I watched Della as she danced with her father. A man she had never known existed until two years ago. When Della had first come to Rosemary Beach, she had no family, just her best friend, Braden, and a lot of screwed-up shit in her past.

“I pway the dwums, An Betty,” Nate informed me loudly over the music.

“I see that. You sound great!” I assured him.

He beamed the charming little smile he’d inherited from his father at me. Then he went back to beating on the table with his spoons. Surprisingly in rhythm to the music. Maybe the kid had gotten his grandfather’s musical talent.

“Dance with me?” Tripp asked just before he stepped in front of me.

It was ridiculously unfair for this man to be in a tuxedo. There had to be a law against it. All six-foot-five of him looked more like the wealthy, elite man he could have been instead of the rebel on a bike he’d become.

He had been entertaining Braden’s cousin all evening. I had forbidden myself to look over at them after my stomach got knotted up so badly I could hardly eat. I wasn’t going to do this to myself. “Don’t you need to dance with your date?” I asked, unable to keep the cattiness from my voice. It wasn’t his fault Della had brought him a wedding date. I would not think about the wedding sex I was sure the woman was expecting.

“I’ve already danced with her. Now I want to dance with you.”

And I wasn’t sure I could keep from pawing at him in his damn suit if he put his arms around me. Why did this man have to look like this? Why couldn’t he have gotten ugly with age?

“Please, Bethy.” His voice had lowered.

Like I could tell him no. I slipped my hand into his outstretched one and stood up.

“Smart girl,” Dean said.

I swung my gaze over to him. He winked at me and gave Tripp a thumbs-up before going back to the drum lesson with Nate.

“It’s OK. It’s just a dance,” Tripp said, pulling my hand until I was close to him and farther away from the table.

Dean’s comments weren’t why I couldn’t relax. It was the idea of being in Tripp’s arms.

We walked out onto the floor just as the music slowed and James Morrison began singing “I Won’t Let You Go.”

One of Tripp’s hands found my lower back as he put gentle pressure on me to move closer while his other hand rested on my hip. I was thankful I had on six-inch stilettos so I could rest my hands on his shoulders.

“You can do better than that,” Tripp whispered in my ear. My traitorous body shivered.

“What?” I asked.

His hands left me and reached up to take mine and place them around his neck before going back to my lower back and hip. “Much better,” he said as our bodies brushed against each other.

This was close. Too close.

“You smell incredible,” he whispered, pressing me even closer.

OK, too much. The warmth of his body was surrounding me, and I was getting light-headed. Maybe because I was forgetting to breathe. When I breathed in, the clean scent of his soap washed over me. He rarely wore cologne. He either smelled like the sea breeze from riding his bike or like this. Either way, I used to love pulling him close and inhaling.

“You look beautiful tonight. I almost felt sorry for the other bridesmaids having to wear the same dress as you.”

If anyone else had said that, I would have laughed and rolled my eyes. Blaire Finlay was the closest thing I had seen to perfection in my life. And Harlow Carter had the classic kind of beauty you don’t see often. But hearing Tripp say it, I believed him.

I touched the collar of his tux and rubbed the expensive fabric between my fingers. This wasn’t a rented tux. It was probably Armani. None of these guys needed a rented tux. It had been a part of their wardrobe since they were kids. Their lifestyles often required a tuxedo.

“You do tuxes well. I’ve never seen you in one,” I replied finally. It was the closest thing I could say to the truth. Telling him it made my heart race in my chest was a bad idea.

He chuckled. “Thanks. I’m not a fan. It’s been a while since I’ve had to wear one. This one is new. I figured if I was staying in Rosemary Beach, I’d need to add a few pieces to my wardrobe.”

He was staying in Rosemary Beach? Why? Because he wanted to be home? “You won’t miss the open road and being able to pick up and take off whenever you want?” I asked, thinking about what I knew of his life since he’d left.

The next song began, and he pulled me closer. “I’m done running, and there’s nothing for me out there. What I want is in Rosemary Beach.”

He didn’t mean me. Not me. I didn’t want him to mean me. The romantic world we were wrapped in on this island was fleeting. Tomorrow we faced reality again. And, with it, the past.

I didn’t respond to him. Those weren’t words I wanted to say out loud right now. I wanted this fantasy for tonight. The fairy tale that I could be here, wrapped up in Tripp’s arms forever. We could dance like this, and I could feel his heartbeat and watch the pulse beating at the base of his throat. The warmth of his embrace was mine to keep. In this moment, I could pretend.