Page 52 of Heart of Stone
Shit.
“Go get your girl,” he says softly. “Life’s too fucking short. Don’t regret decisions you shouldn’t have made.”
There’s a weight to his words, a grief behind them.
I watch as Andi throws her head back, laughing at something Ginger says. The sight hits me like a punch to the gut.
As if sensing my gaze, Andi’s eyes meet mine across the crowd. For a moment, neither of us looks away. Then Ginger grabs her hand, spinning her into another dance, and the connection breaks.
But something shifts.
I watch as she makes her way to the makeshift bar, finally ditching her warm beer for a fresh one. The party has hit that sweet spot where inhibitions start to fall away—couples grinding on the dance floor, prospects trying to impress sweet butts, old-timers telling war stories by the grill.
And Andi, moving through it all like she belongs here. Like she’s always belonged here.
The song changes again, something with a heavy bass that vibrates through the ground. Ginger squeals, grabbing Andi’s hand.
“This is my song!”
I can’t hear Andi’s response over the music, but her laugh carries.
Tank appears beside me, watching his old lady dance. “Gorgeous, isn’t she?”
“Yeah.” But I’m not looking at Ginger.
Andi moves like she works—with precision, with confidence, with a grace that draws the eye. Her hips sway to the beat, and I find myself wondering how they’d feel under my hands.
She lifts her arms up, moving to the music with her eyes closed. Her shirt rides up, showing a strip of skin above her jeans. My mouth goes dry as I stare at all her curvy, generous, soft skin.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, pushing off the railing.
Stone’s laugh follows me as I carve my way through the crowd. People move aside, some with knowing grins, others too drunk to notice. The music gets louder as I approach the women’s corner, the bass thumping in time with my pulse.
Ginger sees me coming, her grin wicked as she spins Andi around, positioning her perfectly.
One step.
Two.
She backs right into me.
Her body goes rigid for a moment before she realizes who it is. Then something else entirely takes over.
“Hawk,” she breathes, not quite turning around.
My hands find her hips, holding her in place. “Dance with me.”
It’s not a request. We both know it.
She stays facing forward, but her body melts back into mine as the music wraps around us. My hands tighten on her hips, guiding her movements to match mine.
Around us, the party fades to background noise. All I can focus on is the way she moves against me, the scent of her hair, the heat of her skin under my palms.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” I say, low enough that only she can hear.
“Yes.” No denial, no excuses. Just honesty.
“Why?”
