Even if he’d believed he had a right to them, he didn’t have the bandwidth to form new connections. He didn’t have it in him to care about anybody new. He had his friends, and they were enough. Them and the job as a deputy in Stone County that had saved his sanity, if not his soul. He protected and served. It was what he knew, who he was.
Because he could no more turn off his inner cop than he could the soldier, Ty continued to scan the room, watching for trouble. He automatically cataloged the guests who were headed toward too much to drink from the open bar. Somebody was gonna have to steal Harrison’s uncle’s keys, if he didn’t end up snoring in on one of the sofas strategically placed around the edges of the room. And if he wasn’t mistaken, that cousin of Ivy’s was making a bid for some wedding karaoke—an activity the bride had vetoed in advance in no uncertain terms. A cluster of kids, maybe eight or ten, crept their way past the gift table with an eye toward scoring more cake.
But it was the guy in the pin-striped suit who snagged Ty’s attention. There was just enough lack of control in his gait to tell Ty he’d had more than his fair share of alcohol. He moved from woman to woman, flashing a too-practiced grin that turned sharp around the edges as he got shot down one after another. An opportunistic predator. Every social function seemed to have one.
“Okay, you have hidden long enough.” Laurel Maxwell, Sebastian’s fiancée, appeared from the edges of the parquet dance floor. Somewhere during the course of the evening, she’d ditched her shoes. But the lack of extra inches didn’t diminish the force of her personality one bit as she grabbed his hands. “I demand a dance!”
Maggie was right behind to claim Porter. “Come on, honey. We’re taking advantage and shaking our groove thing before the clock strikes twelve and we turn into pumpkins.”
Porter ditched his beer. “Yes, ma’am.”
Ty barely noticed as they all headed for the dance floor. He was too busy watching the shark close in on a woman alone in the far corner. Caramel hair spilled down her shoulders in waves. She was seated on some little sofa thing, people watching or maybe resting her feet in those high, high heels. The furniture around her had probably been arranged for cozy conversation. Instead, it acted as a bottleneck, effectively trapping her when the shark approached.
Ty had already begun to edge in that direction as he saw her go stiff, shoving up from her seat. The shark didn’t budge, though her body language shouted she wanted nothing to do with him. It was an old, familiar scenario. One that tickled the back of his brain at memories he’d long ago locked away. He hadn’t been able to stand by then, and he certainly couldn’t now. Intervening with assholes was simply the gentlemanly thing to do.
As he didn’t think Harrison would appreciate a brawl being added to the evening’s entertainment, Ty snagged a couple of glasses of champagne from a passing server and strode across the room.
“Excuse me, man.”
When the shark startled, Ty took the opportunity to slip by him. “Sorry I took so long. The line at the bar was killer.” He offered one of the glasses and nearly dropped it as he looked into familiar brown eyes that had stepped straight out of his past.
* * *
Paisley believed in the power of optimism. She even believed in the power of manifesting. But when she’d wished for a rescue, as she’d done so long ago, she hadn’t imagined she’d get one from him. And yet there he stood, champagne flutes in hand, as if she’d summoned him by will—or longing—alone. Tyson Brooks. The boy she’d loved and lost so many years ago.
He was no boy now. The years and the Army had honed that once lanky body into a weapon of strength and grace. She could see it in the way he moved, in how he held himself. So still, yet so clearly ready for action. And the muscles. Dear God in heaven, the muscles. Just the sight of those shoulders made her mouth water.
Had he known it was her when he came over here?
She searched his face, seeing the lines of the boy in the shape of it, despite the close-cropped beard and squarer jaw.
No. No, that stunned look of surprise in his hazel eyes made it absolutely clear that he hadn’t.
He hadn’t known her at all the first time he’d done exactly this, when some younger version of the current asshole had cornered her at the homecoming dance her sophomore year. It had been some kind of fruity punch in his hands then and a button-down shirt with khakis. The tux he wore now marked him as one of the groomsmen, though he’d left the jacket and bowtie somewhere. The collar of his shirt was loosened, the sleeves of his shirt rolled to reveal muscular forearms that were arm porn all by themselves.
Paisley hadn’t hesitated at sixteen, and she didn’t now. Driven as much by memory as a desire to evict the asshat in no uncertain terms, she moved in, sliding her arms around Ty and pressing against the firm bulk of him as she rose to her toes to brush a kiss over his lips.
She’d only meant to prove her point. To claim him in a way the asshat couldn’t misunderstand. But after only a beat of hesitation, Ty’s mouth opened against hers. The taste of him, at once familiar and foreign, opened up memories she’d kept carefully locked away. The boy he’d been had stood stock still that night, his teenaged brain taking time to catch up to the charade. The man wrapped an arm around her, branding her with a kiss that made her the one claimed. Every cell of her body woke up
