I’m gazing at the bottle of Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson tequila, and when I look up, Deacon’s gone. Who the heck is he taking to the ball tonight?
I scan the area trying to find him when my eyes land on Sawyer on the other side of the tent. My chest clenches, and I have to catch my breath. He’s walking with Dutch Hayes and Ed Daniels along the perimeter of the market.
His hands are in his back pockets, and his expression is so serious. Square jaw set, dark hair swept to the side, silent and serious. He’s so handsome.
The two older men are chatting, but Sawyer is a step behind them. His eyes roam from table to table, and I wonder if he’s looking for me. I haven’t heard his voice since Thursday at the pond—two whole days ago—and when I did, he kept kissing me.
Longing tingles in my skin at the memory. His hazel eyes heated, wanting me, and as much as I try to shake it away, I can’t.
“Ugh,” I sigh. He keeps me so tied up…
“Do you have pure beeswax?” A man in overalls and a Stetson breaks me out of my frustration.
“Pure beeswax… Yes… I think we do. Hang on.” Looking around the table, I pass over stacks of bee pollen, ear candles, honeycomb, royal jelly, until I find the golden blocks of wax.
“How much do you need?” My eyes drift as if drawn by a magnet to where Sawyer is standing on the other side of the tent.
Our eyes connect, and electricity flashes from my chest through my body. He doesn’t smile, but his gaze is so focused, my pulse races faster.
“Miss? Did you hear me?” The man is scowling, and I blink back to him.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t. How much?”
“A half-pound.” He repeats, and I take the small cleaver Ma keeps by the super soft wax and cut off a block, weighing it for him before I wrap it in paper and drop it in a brown bag.
“Eight dollars.” He passes me the money, and I give him change.
When I look around again, Sawyer’s gone. I step out from around the table looking right and left, but I can’t find him. A band warms up at the other end of the tent, and a guy with an accordion kicks them off singing “Don’t Mess with My Toot Toot.” People start to dance, and as the crowd forms, I know I won’t find him.
My chest sinks, and I don’t know what to think.
Hours later I’m sitting alone in the living room at Ma’s house, waiting for my date to appear.
My hair is down in rippling waves over my shoulders. I did a dramatic cat eye with my makeup and nude lips. My green dress is spread around me… I feel like a princess, and when I look up at the clock, it’s seven-thirty.
He said he’d be here at seven.
Ma is at the ball helping with concessions. She doesn’t even know I have a date. Last I told her, I was planning to curl up on the couch in my PJs and watch a movie. I didn’t want her asking a million questions, or worse, having to explain why some fictitious date never arrived.
“Don’t do this to me, Sawyer.” Pulling out my phone, I study the face.
No text, no missed calls. I could call him, but dammit. How many times can I go after that man? I’m not doing it. If he doesn’t show up, that’s it. It’s over…
And I hiccup a breath at the thought.
My heart is breaking in my chest, and I can’t cry. If I cry, I’ll ruin my perfect cat-eye.
Standing, I walk slowly around the living room, tracing my fingers in the floaty chiffon of my skirt. I bought silver strappy heels, because I wanted to feel like a princess. Instead I feel like a loser.
The bottle of Teremana is sitting on the edge of the bookshelf where I left it when I got home this afternoon. Strolling over, I trace my fingers along the wood studying the clear bottle, the white label with gray lettering. I read what it says. Teremana is richly flavored, gluten free, small-batch, hand crafted.
“Groovy.” Tracing my gelled nail over the paper seal, I break it.
Lifting the heavy bottle, I twist the corked cap out of the top and sniff. My eyes squeeze shut at the strong odor of alcohol.
“Here’s mud in your eye,” I whisper, lifting it to no one and taking a sip. “Oh!”
It burns like fire going down, but once that passes, I wait… until I get the smokey oak flavor on my tongue.