Brook's expression shifts, something like pity crossing her face. "Wyatt—"
But I'm already moving past her, cutting through the couples on the dance floor.
"Wyatt, don't!" Brook hisses after me, but I don't stop.
The DJ transitions into something slow. I take it as a sign.
I reach their table where Hailey's standing guard. She looks back and forth between us—unsure if she should send me away or not. Maybe if Kinsley wasn’t looking at me like she wants to be in my arms and is barely holding herself back, she would.
"Dance with me," I say to Kinsley. I want her to myself. I want her in my arms. I want all of her.
She drops her gaze, her jaw tight. "Don't do this."
"Kinsley—"
"It will only make things harder,” she whispers. "Please don't ask me to do this."
I reach for her anyway, offering my hand palm-up. "Please," I say.
She stares at my hand for a long moment. I watch her face—the war between what she wants and what she thinks is right playing out in real-time. Then, slowly like she’s fighting a losing battle, she places her hand in mine.
I lead her onto the dance floor and pull her close—closer than is proper for a public dance. The contact sends electricity up my arm. Four days without touching her, and my body remembers every curve, every place we fit together.
Her frame is stiff at first, resisting, but gradually she softens into me like she can't help herself.
We sway to the music, and for a moment I just hold her, soaking in the reality of having her in my arms again.
"I need to tell you something," I say quietly, my lips near her ear.
She pulls back enough to look at me, “There’s nothing to say.” The pain in her eyes makes my chest ache. “You can't have both, Wyatt. You can't have me and her and some perfect life where everyone's happy. That's not how this works."
"I know that."
"Do you?”
I nod. I start rubbing circles on her back.
"Why are you here?" she asks.
"To tell you how stupid I was,” I will admit that every day of the week and twice on Sundays.
She lowers her jaw like she wasn’t expecting me to say that.
"That night in Cheyenne, I’d messed up my shoulder at a rodeo. Doc gave me pain medication, something heavy-duty. I'd never taken anything stronger than ibuprofen before."
Kinsley's expression shifts slightly, listening.
"I took those pills around nine o'clock, and then there’s this blank in my memory. Nothing.” I shift us so we don’t get bumped into by a couple two stepping around the floor.
"You don't remember?" Her voice is careful, guarded.
"Nothing. Brittany claims she was there," I shake my head. "But I don't remember any of it. Not one thing."
"So, you're saying you didn't—"
"I'm saying I don't know what happened.” I tighten my grip on her waist, needing her to understand.
Kinsley's quiet for a long moment, processing. "But you can't prove anything."