by Penny Wylder
“Y’all will remember Sasha,” he’s saying, voice louder than I’d like, even with the music to cover some of it. “Maryanne’s girl. Sasha, this is…” He trails off with a shrug. “Well, everyone.”
A couple nearby laugh.
Across the yard, I recognize Hank and Etna from the hardware store, deep in conversation with another couple their age. Both of them are eating too, and drinking cans of the local cheap beer I grew up on before I went away to college and learned what real alcohol tasted like.
For some reason, though, watching them, my taste buds are suddenly craving that flavor. That familiar sour tang.
“Want a beer?” Grant asks, following my gaze. Most of the people he just introduced us to have gone back to their meals or conversations, though a few are still stealing surreptitious glances at me from underneath their eyelashes every now and again.
“Sure,” I reply, forcing a wide smile. I’m regretting my dress choice already—hell, maybe the choice to come here at all was a bad one. I should have just let Grant drag me into the bedroom and fuck me all night again. That would be far preferable to being stared at like I’m on display right now.
But as we drift across the room, beers in hand, and settle at a table by the dance floor, some of the stares drift away and drop off. One girl even leans over from a neighboring table to tap my shoulder and smile at me broadly. “Love your dress,” she whispers.
“Thanks.” I offer a hand. “Sasha, by the way.”
“Meredith. You new here too?” she asks.
Ah. Well that would explain the lack of an attitude. My cheeks flush, even as I shrug my shoulders. “Uh… Kind of? It’s a long story.”
Luckily Meredith doesn’t press for details. “I moved back here with Joe after we finished school.” She nudges the guy across the table from her, who starts out of a conversation he’s in with a neighbor for long enough to grin and wave.
“Where are you from originally?” I ask, turning to loop Grant in, only to find he’s been caught in a different conversation with a guy I vaguely recognize. Tommy? No. Trent? Something with a T…
“Philly,” she replies. “So, you know, bit different than this.” She gestures at the party with her beer and laughs softly.
My eyes widen. “Wasn’t that hard, then? Going from a big city to… well. This?”
Meredith laughs. “Hell no. Best decision I ever made. I was a mess up in the northeast. I know that pace of life, that speed, it’s right for some people, but for me, it just made me anxious 24/7. I felt like I always had to be on, on, on, couldn’t ever take time to breathe or relax. And life was just flying by. Here… Well. Life here moves at its own pace. Slower. More sedate. I like that.” She smiles and takes a long swig of her beer.
I sip mine too. It tastes familiar. Not hoppy or unique like a lot of the local brews I drink back in the city, all the fancy ones breweries in Brooklyn are always coming up with. It just tastes simple. Easy to drink.
It tastes like home, I realize with a start.
“I can understand that,” I hear myself saying. But then Grant taps me on the shoulder, and Meredith winks and turns back to Joe, and I spin to attend to my guy.
My guy? Is he that?
I shake that thought off.
“Sasha, you’ll remember Troy,” Grant says.
Troy. “Of course,” I reply, grinning as we shake hands. “You were in my English class senior year right? The one who made all those paper plane notes to throw at… Oh gosh, what was her name?”
“Sarah.” Troy’s smile widens, turns genuine when he realizes that I do remember him after all.
“Sarah, that’s right. How’d that turn out?”
He laughs. “Well, I married her, so guess for yourself.” He leans down to elbow me slightly. “But personally, I’d say it went pretty damn all right.”
Grant’s watching me interact with Troy, something like approval in his eye. I flash a small smile back at Grant, relaxing a little.
Okay, maybe not everyone in town is a jerk. Or at least, once I get to know them—or re-know them—they stop assuming they know everything about me. I could get used to that. Not being a total pariah.
“So how about you Sasha?” Troy asks. “I hear you’ve been living up in New York City now. Big shot in advertising, right?”
I shake my head. “Paralegal. But I’m really just a glorified desk jockey, that’s all.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Grant cuts in, eyes locked on mine. “Your career is really important to you, isn’t it?”
I chew on the inside of my lip. Of course it was. Is. I just hadn’t realized until I took this break away from the desk—until I was staying somewhere without Wi-Fi —how much of my life it consumes. Hell, I haven’t checked my email once since I got here.
Just thinking about that now sends a spark of panic through me. God, the pile that’s going to be awaiting me when I get back on Monday…
But I don’t want to think about that now. I don’t have to think about that now, because for once in my damn life, I’m unplugged. Really and truly unplugged.
“Well, who wants to talk about work when they’re on vacation?” I push to my feet and reach for Grant’s hand. “Dance?”
Troy tips his hat to us and steps aside as Grant accepts my hand, then tugs me to his side and leads me to the dance floor.
“You call this a vacation?” he asks as we line up for the next square dance, in a pattern I don’t know. “Working your ass off to fix up a farmhouse, that’s your break, really?”
I shrug. “It’s hard to get time off. Schedules are packed around this time of year—end of summer, you know, everyone wants to live up the last days of warmth.”
“And you’re spending them back home in the town you hated, doing hard labor with a business partner you never wanted,” he supplies.
The band strikes up a tune. Grant plants a firm hand on my hip and guides me into position across from him.
“I don’t remember—” I start to say, then cut off with a gasp when he pulls me straight into a fast, side-stepping swing.
“Just relax and follow me,” he says, rocking through the steps with an easy gait, pulling me along with him.
I promptly step on his foot, then stumble trying to catch my footing again. He tightens his grip on my waist, pulls me closer, until I can feel the heat radiating from him, our bodies almost touching.
“I said relax,” he points out, and I flush, biting my lip.
“That’s hard when I don’t know what I’m doing,” I mumble.
“You have to give up control, Sasha. You have to trust me. Because I know what I’m doing.” He locks eyes with me, and for a second, I have the sensation that we’re talking about more than just this dance.
I hold his gaze when he starts to move again. I try my best to listen to his advice—to forget about my footing, the pace, the song. To just watch him, feel his one big hand wrapped around mine, his other cupping my waist, drawing me across the floor.
When I keep my eyes on him, I find it’s easier to let go. Easier to let him take control, to read his body to learn what he wants mine to do.
Pretty soon, we’re flying across the floor easily. He swings me out away from him, then spins me back in to his side, and someone behind us whoops. There’s other dancers on the floor now, but we’re weaving between them, lost in a world of our own. I have eyes only for Grant. For a big man, he sure does move lightly on his feet. He dances like he was born doing it, and I’m just along for the ride.
Without warning, at a peak moment in the song, he grabs me and dips me backwards across his forearm. I gasp as I fall back against his arm, but he’s got me, holding me up as easily as though I weighed nothing at all.
I catch his eye again, and catch a hint of that hungry expression, the one that shows me just how much he can’t get enough of me. How much he wants to claim me.
It sends an ache through my body, makes me just as hungry for him. Having his strong arms arou
nd me, feeling the way he can fling me across this dance floor, it’s turning me on way too much to be appropriate in public.
And, judging by the hard press I feel against my thigh when he swings me back upright and pulls me flush against him for the final chords of the song, he’s feeling the same way.
The music fades, and for the span of a second, it’s just the two of us. His heartbeat pounding against mine as we stand there, chest-to-chest, arms around one another—when did that happen? My head swims, fuzzy with desire. There are people talking, laughing, slapping one another on the shoulders. From the corner of my eye I notice people watching us, whispers starting. I don’t care. I have eyes only for Grant.
He smirks and turns away to lead me off the floor, though he keeps his hand wrapped around mine long after we leave the dance floor behind.
“Think we’ve started enough rumors yet?” I ask in a soft voice as we cross the tent. He stops by the coolers propped at the far end to grab another beer and tosses me a mischievous grin along with a second beer.
“Far from it.”
I glance past him at the rest of the tent. It feels like everyone in here is staring at me now—but maybe that’s just my imagination.
“They’re not as bad as you think, you know,” Grant murmurs beside my ear, so close that a shiver runs down my back. I can feel his hot breath on my cheek, and that combined with the memory of his arms around me, the hard press of his cock through his jeans when we ended that dance, it makes me feel horny as a teenager at her first school dance. I want to grab him and drag him into the trees around this field, rip those jeans off.
My cheeks flare bright red. “They’re staring,” I point out, my voice low.
“Only because you’re worth looking at.” He smirks, then his eyes dart past me for a second. “Game?”
For a moment, I don’t understand what he means. Then I follow his gaze to the nearest pool table, now empty of players. I smirk, too. “You’re on.”
Those staring spectators don’t dissipate as we cross to pick up our cues. If anything, the crowd grows. By the time Grant breaks and lands two solid pockets in a row, there’s an actual audience standing around our table.
“Have you warned your new girl you’re a shark at this game, Werther?” one of the guys comments, strolling over to join the slowly growing spectators around our table.
Grant snorts, but misses his next shot, and I grin as the cue ball lines up perfectly with a stripe in the corner pocket. I sink that, then two more, one after another, my smirk widening with every shot. By the third, the crowd is whooping.
“Guess the shark has met his match,” the guy amends, and Grant locks eyes with me, a challenge in his dark gaze.
I toss my head, beaming now. “Or there’s a new shark in town.” With that, I sink my fourth ball in a row, and exchange celebratory high-fives with a few guys who offer their palms. Troy has joined the crowd now, and Meredith, along with her husband, Joe.
“Kick his ass, Sasha,” Meredith calls, and I wink at her as I line up my next shot.
But I must be getting too confident, too fast, because the next shot misses. And it lines Grant’s next move up perfectly. Damn. I bite my lip and step away as I wait for him to fire.
He pockets another ball. I swallow hard. He lands another one after that, and I realize it’s time to whip out the big guns.
I step closer to the table and lean down to watch his next shot, right in his line of vision.
He glances up to line up the balls, and then his eyes dart to me. To my cleavage, showing just below the neckline of my dress. All he’ll be able to glimpse from his angle is a hint of red lace, the edge of my bra, and a little bit of the cleavage it’s pushing up to my advantage.
But apparently it’s enough.
Grant fires and misses completely, scratching the ball.
The whoops around us intensify, and a few guys slap Grant on the back.
“Losing your touch, man,” Troy teases him as I toss the cue ball in my palm, debating where to line up.
“And to a city girl, no less,” I add, batting my lashes with faux innocence.
The look in his eyes is half annoyance, half furious desire. “What can I say?” he replies, a cool smile on his mouth. “I don’t have the same bag of tricks up my sleeve.” He does, however, lean against the table as I set up my next shot, making sure to stretch his arms wide enough that it pulls his T-shirt taut, shows off the outline of his muscles beneath, every sexy inch of them.
I tear my gaze away, forcing my head into the game. I pocket my next two balls. Down to just one and the 8-ball left.
“What do you say we up the stakes?” Grant asks, his voice low.
A couple of whistles steal through the crowd anyway.
I lift an eyebrow. “What did you have in mind?”
“I win, you have to do everything I say for the next hour.”
The crowd titters with laughter. He, however, has his dark eyes fixed straight on me, dead serious. And I know exactly what he’s thinking.
A trickle of desire runs down my spine. I imagine myself doing his bidding. Whatever he commands…
I raise my chin and lock eyes with him. “And if I win?”
“Then same. You make the rules.”
“Do it,” Troy shouts.
“Make that boy your bitch,” Meredith adds, and I laugh, watching her and Joe elbow one another after that comment.
I tap my chin with the pool cue, as though debating. But really, all I can think about is what it would be like to be his for an hour. Forced to obey his every command, his every whim… It’s almost enough to make me want to lose on purpose.
Almost.
But then I think about being the one in charge of this big, sexy country boy, and I change my mind. Hell no. I want to win this thing. If for nothing more than to see what I can make this big man do to me…
“You’re on,” I tell him, and his grin widens.
I’m not sure why until I study the table again. Crap. My next shot is tricky as hell. I’ll have to bank the cue ball twice just to hit my ball, let alone sink it. I take a deep breath and line up. I have to block out the chants that the crowd has started—Bust him, Bluebell, in particular, has become a fast favorite apparently.
I shoot, but the second my stick hits the ball, I realize I’ve messed up. It banks off the wall too sharply, and misses my shot entirely.
Grant’s smile widens.
I swallow hard. He lines up his next play. I watch him sink his fifth and sixth balls without too much worry. But as he lines up an easy shot for his seventh, my nerves start to jangle.
Shameless by this point, I hike up the edge of my dress and take a seat across from him on the table. A few of the guys wolf whistle. Grant fixes his gaze on me and smirks.
“Not going to save you this time,” he says.
I narrow my eyes. “Worth a shot,” I shrug, letting a finger trail up my outer thigh. “You know. Just in case you’re easily distracted…”
He fires the next shot, and the ball hits the pocket straightaway. Shit.
He just has the eight ball left.
The crowd, at least, seems to be on my side. I laugh as chants of Miss, Miss, Miss replace the old Bluebell cry. Maybe Grant’s friends just want to see him lose a game for once, but for me, it almost makes me feel like I belong here for a moment.
Almost.
Unfortunately, Grant doesn’t take the crowd’s advice. He calls the eight ball pocket, and I watch with my heart in my throat as it glides right in on his first try.
I swallow hard around the lump.
“Good game,” Grant says, hand extended.
I lock eyes with him as I grasp his hand. “You too.” His grip tightens, and I enjoy the warm sensation of his fingers wrapped around mine.
Then he lets go, as the crowd begins to dissipate a little, spectators drifting off to watch another pool match starting up at the other table. Troy slaps my back as he passes, and shoots me a commiserat
ing smile. “Almost had him,” he says. “Next time.”
“Well,” I say to Grant, lifting my chin to meet his gaze. “Congratulations, big winner. What happens now?”
“Now?” His smile deepens. “I believe by the terms of our agreement, you owe me an hour.”
“Mmhmm. And just what did you have in mind for this hour of being the boss, exactly?”
His gaze drops down my body, tracing the outlines of my curves. Then he leans down to whisper against my ear, so no one else can hear, his breath so hot it makes my belly tighten with desire. “Meet me behind the tents in five minutes and find out.” With that, he strides away and leaves me holding my cold beer, heart racing, panties already in danger of getting far too wet for a public setting.
“Tough luck,” Meredith says as she reaches my side through the crowd, slapping me on the shoulder.
I shrug. “You win some, you lose some.”
“Still, you play great. Where’d you learn to shoot pool like that?”
I grimace, and repress the memory as fast as I can. Me escaping Dad’s shouts in the farmhouse, hiding out in the toolshed with the toy pool table Dad made me when he was in one of his better moods, way back when.
“Around,” I reply.
“Who knew New York could handle bar games that well,” Joe, Meredith’s husband, comments with a laugh. He doesn’t seem judgmental though, just stating a fact.
I put a hand on my hip. “We do have bars up in the big city, you know,” I point out. “And parties too. Even backyard hoedowns in some places.” I gesture around us.
“Not like ours,” he counters, and I have to concede that point. I haven’t been to anything quite like this party up in the city.
“There are some things I miss about life here,” I admit, turning to take in the tent. The kids are back, taking over the dance floor now. My heart nearly stops as I watch a little curly blonde girl grab a brunette boy’s hand and drag him onto the floor, trying to teach him the steps to a dance her mother and father are doing right next to her. I remember times like that. Back when we were all here. Back when we were still a family. Not just Mama and me, left on our own. Left to heal the rift without any help.
