You'd Be Mine(48)

“What’s that you’re drinking? No shots?”

My cheeks heat. “Nope. Not tonight.”

The sound of bagpipes plays over the jukebox, and Lindy shakes her head, cleaning a glass. “That’s for you, Coolidge.”

We glance over at the dance floor. Fitz is in the middle of a mob, stamping his boots and waving at us.

Jefferson throws back the last of his beer, slamming it on the bar. “My people await.”

Lindy leans forward. “Girls were like moth to the flame when Fitz and the Coolidge boys would get on the line for ‘Copperhead Road.’ It’s how that little miracle came about.” She points at the photo again, smiling fondly. I suddenly wish I had gotten to meet this Sergeant Daniel Coolidge.

“Really?” I turn in my seat to get a clearer view. “I haven’t seen a proper line dance in ages, but I don’t remember thinking much of it as a kid.”

“That’s because you never saw it like this.”

Dancing would’ve been okay. I could have survived a dancing cowboy. I could have even survived a stomping Clay Coolidge, country singer.

But holy Hannah, I won’t survive Jefferson Coolidge, farm boy.

Even under the dimmed lights, I can spot him clearly, his thumbs hooked in his belt loops. Clay doesn’t usually wear the stereotypical cowboy boots offstage; in fact, he usually wears something sturdier like Doc Martens. But tonight, his high-end black boots are polished beneath his tailored jeans. It’s all a bunch of tapping and stomping and hopping, but I can’t look away. His hips swing sinuously. His ball cap drawing my attention to his backside.

I’m taken.

I’m a cliché.

I don’t even care.

Suddenly Jefferson is sauntering over to me, and I put down my drink so as not to spill it. He holds out a hand, and I hop down like an obedient puppy. He raises my hand high in the air. “Annie Mathers, everyone!” A few people crane to see me in the crowd, curious. Even here, in the middle of nowhere, my dad’s name carries recognition.

I seriously wish I had taken a shot earlier. Lindy gives me a wink, laughing from behind the bar. I glare at her, though I doubt she can see in the dark.

Jefferson keeps hold of my hand, leading me through the repetitive steps. Whenever we need to turn, he grabs my hips and helps me along. The first time, I stutter in my steps, but after a full rotation, I have a grasp of the movements.

After another, I feel confident enough to look up and meet Kacey’s eyes. She and Jason cheer, and I beam in response, a little surprised to see them out there. I hadn’t even realized they were in the mob. I only had eyes for Jefferson’s hips.

Speaking of. Jefferson is behind me and then next to me, and I turn early, catching him watching my rear. He waggles his brows, and I shove his shoulder. He careens into a guy next to him with a laugh. He points to me and mouths, “Her fault.”

By the end, I’m chanting and clapping with the rest of the dancers and having the time of my life. The song ends, and everyone scatters. There’s a slow song on and before I can get back to my seat, Jefferson snatches my hand and pulls me back.

“One more?”

I bite my lip, considering. If line dancing has me this wrung out, I don’t know that I’ll ever recover after pressing my body up against his.

But still, I can’t say no. I don’t want to. Something deep down inside me knows this is the last time. The only time I can let this happen. Just one … last … hit.

This music has more of a sway, and I gulp as Jefferson takes my arms, draping them over his shoulders, before taking a firm grip of my waist.

Please, Jesus.

His heart thuds steadily under mine, and he lowers his head to rest it on the top of my own. His chest rumbles as he sings along quietly. I smile to myself. Can’t even stop himself from performing when it’s an audience of one.

He pulls back a little, taking one of my hands in his before spinning me out and back again. I laugh as he sings louder, spinning me once more. His eyes are crinkled up as they find mine, and my heart clenches. It’s just so … real. I almost want to shake myself because it can’t be real between us. That Jefferson smile can’t mean anything.

I can’t be the one to make him feel that way. It’s too much pressure. Too much … everything. I close my eyes, tucking myself in under his chin once more, squeezing him tightly against me. Hiding myself from his piercing eyes. His happy, teasing, easy smile.

My smile.

Because it’s become abundantly clear in the last twenty-four hours that Jefferson isn’t just some frat boy country star. He’s more than kissing in the dark and filled-out denim. He’s just as damaged as I am. He’s got heartache and grief and loneliness, and if I can’t survive him, he sure as hell can’t survive me.

I don’t deserve that smile. I’d break him the way my parents broke each other, and that’s not acceptable.

The song finishes, and before he can talk me into another, I release him gently. “I need to use the ladies’.”

I hightail it for the bathroom and shut the door behind me, checking for others before locking it with a click. I turn the faucet to ice cold and pull my hair back with the tie I always have around my wrist. Then I cup the water, splashing my face over and over and over. His smile is burned into my mind. My heart aches painfully in my chest, and still I splash as if I could wash away the feel of him.