She whirled to return to Molly, when she lifted her gaze and saw him. Standing against the wall, arms folded, dark eyes hooded as he watched her.
Jesus. Where had this guy come from? Did Reedy even boast of such amazingly hot men like him? He must be an out-of-towner.
Six-one with messy dark hair that was too long. And damn, he wore a beard with a soul patch under his lip that made her press her thighs together.
His biceps strained the seams of his white and gray western shirt. From here, she saw his jeans conformed to his body, outlining the fact that he was very aware of her.
She shuddered. Confusion gripped her, and before she could do anything remotely stupid like walking up to him and asking for a dance, she spun off into the crowd.
Bodies pressed close, and faces flashed around her. She pressed a palm to her chest, trying to still the manic rate her heart had adopted.
Be careful. A man like that is a dead weight—a stone tethering you to Reedy. A hand stopped her, and she looked over to find Molly. Her sister cradled two beers against her tight denim shirt.
“Thanks.” Nola took one drink. “Let’s get a seat.”
Molly laughed, pitching her voice high enough to be heard over the blare. “Where? Maybe that chandelier up there isn’t taken.” She tilted her head back. “Nope. All clear. Let’s climb onto the piano and jump on.”
“Okay, we’ll stand.”
Molly gestured with a nod toward the wall. “Looks like some good standing room over there.” Her voice took on an insinuative tone as she obviously spotted Mr. Thigh-Clenchingly-Hot.
“No, not there. We won’t be able to see the singers very well.”
“You need to see them? Since when?” But Molly followed Nola clear across the room to the opposite wall. An entire dance floor stood between her and that man who, in seconds, had made her forget all dreams of Nashville, and was making her think more and more of how long it had been since she’d had a man’s arms around her.
Or a soul patch rubbing my clit.