I damn near do a spit take. Beer dribbles down my chin and I wipe it away. “You don’t miss a thing, do you?”
Rowan taps his temple twice. “Military mind, baby.”
A flicker of something warm sparks deep inside my chest.
Wistfully, as if he’s completely lost in thought and oblivious to the effect the term of endearment has on me, he adds, “G. E. M.”
I nod sagely. “Five generations of men voluntarily made this choice, Rowan.”
Laughter creeps in slowly this time, steadily building in intensity as though the joke didn’t fully land before.
I slap my hands over my face. “I can’t believe I almost married him.”
When I finally pull myself together, Rowan not far behind, I sweep my hair to one side with one hand while sipping my beer with the other. From the corner of my eye, I see his attention linger where the lace strap of my bra is visible on my exposed shoulder. I shift in my seat. Our knees brush again. His eyes catch mine for a long beat before he clears his throat and averts his gaze.
The jukebox stills, the ten seconds of silence between tracks palpable with anticipation. Rowan looks over his shoulder, ear turned toward the speakers.
An iconic intro made up of plucked guitar strings and a hi-hat keeping tempo resonates through the bar. Something in the room shifts as Garth Brooks’ velvety voice starts in about how he showed up in boots to a black-tie affair.
Rowan looks at me, cocky grin and all, as the whole place comes to life. Groups clink their glasses across tables. Low murmurs of people singing along with the friends seated beside them. I swear the jukebox senses it too because the volume cranks higher.
Garth barely has a chance to croon about his friends in low places before Rowan’s off his stool. He holds out a hand. “Dance with me.”
My eyes dart around the bar. “Nobody else is dancing.”
“You trust me, runaway?”
I scoff and roll my eyes, sliding a smile behind another sip. Idotrust him. Wish I could make sense of why it’s true. My beer hits the bar top and I hop off the stool. “Alright,” I say, taking his hand. “Show me what you’ve got.”
He wraps a strong arm around me, hand splayed over the spot where the waistband of my leggings meets the skin of my back. I’m tugged in close. Our hands link together between our chests as he positions us on what can only be described as a walkway to get from one end of the bar to the other. Definitely not a dance floor.
On beat, he leads me in the steps—right, left, left, right, left, left. By the time the electric and steel guitar instrumental begins, several other couples have risen from their seats, dancing in their own little bubbles around their tables. Rowan surveys the bar like a proud papa. “Told ya.”
“Cockiness suits you, soldier. How’d you know this song would work?”
Without losing track of our steps, he shrugs and says, “It’s my Pops’ favorite, and it always gets my squad mates acting like fools.”
The pad of Rowan’s thumb brushes across my spine, sending a shiver coursing through me. Eyes lock in the dim light of the bar as he pulls our hands to rest on his chest. Heart galloping, the palm I have on his shoulder slides to the collar of his shirt.
It’s so hard to breathe, I have to look away. The distraction I was needing catches my attention immediately. I smile, whispering my next words like I might jinx the sight altogether. “Alan is singing.”
Rowan turns us so he can see for himself. The grouchy bartender mouths along to the second verse while he wipes down the bar. His lips move almost begrudgingly, but I sense there’s some delight buried behind that permascowl.
Soon enough, the bar buzzes with so much energy it’s an effort to find our own space anymore. Patrons flying solo belt the chorus about the beer in their hand chasing their blues away, adding to the camaraderie of it all.
The strong soldier holding me pulls me in again, closing the remaining inch between us. He shifts to the side, slotting one leg between my thighs. Hips meet hips, chests glued together.
Rowan, in all his muscles and tattooed glory, unashamedly serenades me without missing a word.
I sing right back at him, our eyes glued, smiles stretched wide. Our steps become tighter as though the two feet of space we’ve claimed for ourselves on the sticky wood-planked floor is a world of its own. In this universe there’s no runaway bride, no dying mothers. I’m just Hannah: the girl who met a cute boy on the sidewalk. And he’s just Rowan: the cute boy who invited her out for a drink and asked her to dance.
Lost in the feel of his arms, somewhere between the singing and our bodies drawing closer, we’ve moved from a two-step to a deep sway, side to side. I can’t stop looking at him.
Something inexplicable tilts the energy between us as he draws our clasped hands up. He releases mine at his neck and wraps his free arm around my waist, my entire body anchored by the heavy forearms stacked on my lower back.
I don’t know if it’s the attraction or the bone-deep need to be held that makes me do it, but I loop both arms around his shoulders and bury my face in his neck. He comes willingly, folding the mass of himself around me like a cocoon.
And it’s here, in the dim light of a no-name dive bar filled with strangers belting Garth Brooks, in the arms of a man I met three hours ago, where I feel the cosmic split between thebeforeand theafter. Theserendipity at play to intersect our paths culminates in this objectively mundane yet seminal moment.