Page 52 of Training the Heart

The Saturday night crowd at Luke’s 32 Bridge doesn’t disappoint. It’s a wide open space with a center bar, and right now it’s full of people ready to party country-style.

We’re only two drinks deep and I’m reminded for the second night in a row why I love Nashville so much. The crowds, the sounds wafting out of every single pub down Broadway, the genuine country music roots that bloom here for a while, only to be plucked and given to the masses, then replanted with the next crop of talent and nurtured until they, too, are ready.

“Nashville’s your town,” Wade says as he sips his shot of bourbon.

The butterflies I felt before around him are now drunk and out of control in my stomach, as he stares into my eyes in the dark bar. It felt so good to share my story with someone today, and the way Wade just listened and consoled me will sit with me in my heart for a long time. I’m glad the first person I told wasWade. I never knew I needed to get it out until I did. Now, I just feel … free.

I smile up at him, trying to ignore how gorgeous he is tonight. Faded jeans and his perfectly fitted flannel shirt, hugging tight to his upper arms, and he’s wearing that damn Titans hat again, backwards. He’s the picture of rugged, masculine perfection.

“I love it so much,” I say to him. “Think of the talent that played in this very bar, in the bar next to us, the one across the street. Hell, this man on stage right now could be the next big country superstar. Only time will tell,” I say as the bartender approaches.

I hop up on the rail to get closer so he can hear me. “Two more.” I smile at him and he nods, passing me another two Nashville-sized “shots.”

We turn our backs to the bar and watch through the crowd as the rugged-looking singer on stage moves through his own rendition of “Fire Away” by Chris Stapleton. He’s good enough that the bar gets louder, dancing and singing along.

I sip my drink, and let the warm fuzzy feel of the Jack Daniel’s in my glass vibrate with the music through my body for the next few songs, as Wade keeps watch from just behind me at a standing table, sipping his own drink a lot slower than I sip mine. I need this release. I’ve been so pent-up for him, while he has been the picture of cool, aside from the five minutes he let go and kissed me on his living room floor. I can’t stop the visions of Wade looking so goddamn sexy in every setting from flooding my mind while the singer starts his version of “Like a Wrecking Ball” by Eric Church.

I sway my hips to the music, my flowy black sundress hiking even higher as I raise my hands over head, and I let the sultry music vibrate through me at its own frequency, feeling that perfect blend of tingly and warm. The crowd is so thick in the darkbar I can barely see the stage, and the drunken chatter is so loud that I don’t realize I’ve drifted a little further onto the dance floor.

The crowd sings the chorus and I sing right along with them as I feel large hands run down my sides. I instantly hope that they’re Wade’s, but I realize quickly the hands around me aren’t his as they move nervously around my waist and the scents of vodka and expensive cologne fill my senses. This man’s cologne smells nice but it isn’t Wade’s earthy, spicy scent.

“Watching you move out here makes me feel like you need a partner,” a deep voice rasps into my ear. I pull back and meet the eyes of a tall, young cowboy.

I open my mouth to speak.

“There you are,” Wade says, posting up beside me like a guard dog. “Need another drink,sweetheart?” he asks, loud enough for the man in front of me to hear, then looks to him as if he never even noticed him standing there.

“Can we help you with something, bud?”

“Nah, sorry, man. I thought she was alone.” He nods and disappears into the crowd as I start laughing and swat at Wade.

“Sweetheart?” I ask, one eyebrow raised. “I wouldn’t take you for thesweethearttype.”

Wade passes me a shot and nods, offering me the salute, to which I hold it in the air.

“To us, getting the yearling tomorrow that’ll win you a derby.”

Wade holds his glass up and then knocks it back in one fell swoop.Impressive.I follow suit, swallowing the burn of the whiskey down my throat.

“I could be thesweethearttype,” he says, looking genuinely offended as he places our glasses on a passing waitress’s tray.

I laugh. “Nah, I picture you more like thecome here, womantype,”I say, mocking his voice.

Wade wraps his arms around my waist and starts moving with me to the music.

“After the heartfelt nickname I’ve given you already? How could you ever think that about me, Trouble?” he asks, thinking he’s pretty funny, looking down at me with that smirk on his face I can’t get enough of.

I try not to notice the way my insides pool into fiery ash with our bodies pressed together like this. We’re on a dance floor, of course we’re going to have to dance.

I laugh with him for a moment as I let my fingers trail the hair at the nape of his neck. Wade’s eyes shine in the dimly lit room as his thumb traces my lower back while we dance to the singer crooning his version of “Sand in My Boots” by Morgan Wallen.

“All good, Chief. I’m starting to realize that grumpy is your love language, so I’ll choose to let it flatter me—but how do you know you didn’t just stop me from meeting my soulmate in that cowboy?”

Wade makes a scoffing noise.

“He was not your soulmate,” he says, his jaw flexing.

I raise an eyebrow. “How do you know?” I challenge.

---