Page 189 of Burn the Wild

“What? Party planning?”

He arches a brow. “Love.”

I laugh, glance down at my boots where Reese’s name is written in Sharpie on the outsole. “Man, you ain’t seen the half of it.”

Me and my brothers hover at the bar with cold beers in our hands. A few Resurrection locals stand over our table, eating the remains of the cake. Koty and Ruby dance in the center of the room. Beef returns with another round of drinks.

I lift my beer, tipping it to Reese, who walks inside with Fallon. “I look at that girl right there and you know what I see?”

“The love of your fucking life,” Charlie says, his eyes on Ruby.

“Yeah,” I husk. “The love of my fucking life.”

I smile, watching the way all heads turn as she crosses the floor. Damn if she doesn’t shine like gold in that dress.

Too goddamn beautiful.

Mine.

The stool rattles beside me as Wyatt plops down, signaling for a drink. He looks like he needs to blow off some steam.

“You okay?” Davis asks, clocking Wyatt.

“Fine,” he says, his voice tight.

“By the way…” I shoot back my shot. “I need the name of the jeweler you used for Koty.”

Wyatt groans, covering his face with his hands. “Y’all gotta stop makin’ plans without me.”

I slip off the stool. “C’mon. We ain’t gonna get the girl sitting at the bar.”

“Hey there, Country Boy,” Reese says, meeting me in the middle of the bar. “Save me a dance?”

There’s so much love in her eyes, it nearly knocks me over.

“Every dance tonight and every dance after.” I pull her into my arms and onto the dance floor.

She shakes her head, smiling. “Smooth talker.”

I spin her and return her to my arms. The jukebox plays George Strait’s “I Cross My Heart.”

She lays her head on my chest. “Think this just might be our song.”

“It is,” I husk.

The dance floor is crowded and hot, but we dance the night away.

“You could say excuse me!” The husky female voice floats over the bar, louder than the music. Angry.

Reese and I come to a halt on the dance floor.

Beside me, Davis and Koty freeze. “Where’s Fallon?” Davis asks, craning his head.

“Oh no,” Reese breathes, fingertips going to her mouth.

We all look over to see Fallon punching a finger in a cowboy’s chest. A burly, sweaty, tobacco-chewing mustachioed man with American Flag tattoos on his biceps. “You must be the cunt of the litter.”

“Fuck,” Charlie groans.

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