Follow Me Back (Fight for Me 2)

Ruining it with just a dash of the truth.

Warily, Kale stood, and I could sense him slowly signing the credit card receipt and then tucking the card back in his wallet.

He was probably realizing that I was no princess just as I was realizing I was an idiot to hope for a knight.

Then his hand was back on the small of my back, stealing my breath, and a tiny whimper was breaking free from my lips. His words were uttered so close to my ear that I couldn’t help but cling to the security of his hold.

“Let’s get you out of here,” he said.

He wound us back through the lavish restaurant and out onto the sidewalk. Crowds moved around us, people darting here and there to enjoy their Friday nights, laughter ringing on the Alabama night.

I inhaled, filling myself with the calming, familiar scents of this city, the river and the trees and the thick, intoxicating scent of honeysuckle that rode the air on provocative waves.

But I guessed it was the sheer potency of him that made me feel lightheaded—drunk—when he shocked me by wrapping an arm around my waist and tugging me close.

Citrus and spice and the lingering scent of whiskey.

His lips were a murmur against my temple. “I know you’re getting ready to run from me, Hope. Don’t. Stay with me . . . just a little while more.”

I could feel the confusion pressed into the lines of my forehead when I pulled back to look at his face. And the man . . . the man had let that knowing smirk climb to his pretty, pretty face.

My knees nearly gave when he threaded his fingers back through mine.

Tenderly.

Possessively.

“Come,” he said, a glint in his eyes before he darted us across the busy street. A surprised gasp ripped from my lungs, and I struggled to keep up on my too-high heels as he hauled me in the direction of the bar on the opposite corner.

The same bar our paths had first crossed just last week that now felt as if they were being impossibly tangled together.

“What are you doing?” I demanded, the words a breathy plea.

Hope and reservation.

A giddy giggle rolled out right behind it.

Because this man made me feel so free. Unshackled after years of being chained. Years of trying to change our situation and not knowing the right answer to finding that solution. Of course, my conclusion had been swift and without question that day one year ago when I’d packed our things and left.

There are just times in your life when things become crystal clear and you know the path you need to run down, the situation you need to run away from.

Jerking open the door, Kale sent me one of those smiles that blasted through me with the power of a hurricane.

Annihilating.

Exhilarating.

Because when Kale Bryant looked at me that way?

I felt as if I were the only person in the world.

“I promised you a good time, and you’re gonna get a good time.”

He pulled me into the intensity of the bar. People were packed wall to wall, voices lifted above the mayhem, the vibe so much rowdier than it’d been last Friday.

Tonight, the band was the focus, commanding the attention with their distinct country flare. Tables were pushed back out of the way to create a makeshift dance floor beneath the risers that had been brought in to create an elevated stage.

My heart rate latched on to the intensity. An erratic thrum, thrum, thrum that hammered and beat.

Kale ran his hand down the center of my back.

Chills.

Fire.

Heat.

His palm hit home right above my bottom, his pinky finger just skating into the vicinity.

Oh God.

Maybe it had been too long.

Because that simple touch had me flying.

Wanting things I knew full well I shouldn’t. Not when so many things were still left unresolved.

His mouth landed at the edge of my ear, voice lifted to be heard above the chaos. “Carolina George is playing tonight . . . they travel around the South, hitting cool venues and dives alike. Ollie, the owner here? He and the guitarist go way back, so once a month, they come to play here. People flock through that door in droves whenever they do.”

“I take it you’re a fan?”

He glanced around with a grin. “Think it’s safe to say just about everyone around here is. Not a whole lot not to like.”

I patted his chest, feeling bolder in his presence. “Told you all Alabama boys are cowboys at heart.”

He pulled me closer. “Knight. Don’t forget it.”

“Whatever you say, Cowboy.”

Carolina George’s singer was this stunning, dainty creature, who belted out her song at the microphone. Her face was the perfect match to her gorgeous, mesmerizing voice.

It vibrated through the speakers, somehow both sultry and upbeat as it kept time with the quick rhythm that pounded from the drums.