Cowboy Resurrection: Cowboy Cocktail, Book 2 by Mia Hopkins Page B

her father said something.
    “Mr. MacKinnon.”
    Monica stopped laughing, bolted upright in her chair and turned around. Dean touched the brim of his hat as he acknowledged each man at the table.
    “Gentlemen,” he said. “Mr. Singh. Nice to see you again. I was wondering if I might ask your permission to dance with your daughter.”
    Monica was speechless. After what had happened in the parking lot, Dean had enormous balls to approach her father and his six scowling brothers.
    A long, uncomfortable moment of silence passed before Monica’s father leaned forward and asked her, “ Beti ,do you want to dance with this boy?”
    Dean wasn’t a boy. And it had been decades since she’d been a girl. But Monica said, “Yes, Papa.”
    Her father looked at him, then at her. “One song. And then you must tell him goodbye.”
    “Sir.” Dean nodded to her father and held out his hand. Monica took it. The crowd stared hotly as he led her onto the dance floor.
    The band started a new song. Willie Nelson’s “Crazy”.
    Dean put his hand on her waist and pulled her close. “Appropriate,” he said softly.
    She nodded, too sad to smile.
    He led her in a graceful two-step. Their bodies melded together on instinct. They shared one rhythm and the sweet lilt of the music made Monica lightheaded in his arms.
    “You look real pretty,” he said. “I knew the cowgirl look would suit you.”
    Instead of speaking, she rested her cheek against his shoulder and concentrated on not falling to pieces in front of all these people.
    “I’m so proud of you,” he said. “What you’ve done here—it’s amazing. The town needed this. The people needed this.”
    She didn’t want to talk about the rodeo, so she squeezed his hand and said, “You’re a good dancer.”
    “Most cowboys are.” He added with a grin, “Good two-steppers, anyway.”
    Usually, she didn’t care for country music. But in the last couple of months, Monica had changed in more ways than one. “I like this song.”
    “Me too.”
    They took another turn around the dance floor. With each note, their time together dwindled away. “I don’t know how to say goodbye to you,” she said, looking up into his eyes. “I don’t think I can.”
    “Tell you what, then. Let’s not say goodbye. The song will end. I’ll go my way, and you’ll go yours. And maybe no matter where we go, no matter where we end up, there will always be some part of us still here on this dance floor. Stuck in time. Dancing to ‘Crazy’. How does that sound?”
    Her laconic cowboy could be a poetic soul sometimes. One tear fell down her cheek. Dean caught it with his thumb and wiped it away.
    His voice grew softer, just loud enough for her to hear. “That dream job. It’s waiting for you. You’ve worked hard for it. You deserve it.” He smiled. “I can’t wait to see what you accomplish.”
    “I’m going to miss you so much,” she said. The song slowed towards its inevitable end.
    He kissed her lips. “I’m gonna to miss you too, princess.”
    As the band played the final chords of the song, the crowd began to applaud. When Monica opened her eyes, Dean let her go. His eyes on hers, he touched the brim of his cowboy hat and nodded. Without saying goodbye, he turned around and slid back into the crowd.
    * * * * *
    Two days later, Dean drove his father’s old truck out of town, past the airfield east of the highway. On the outskirts of Oleander, the road he took cut through acres and acres of grapes. For generations, the Singhs had grown table grapes, green Thompson and red Flame and Summer Royal grapes so purple they were almost black. Monica’s father had six brothers, all involved in the cultivation, processing or distribution of their family’s grapes. Theirs was a tight, shrewd operation, the envy of farmers all over the Central Valley.
    As Dean drew closer to Monica’s family’s house, he took control of his breath. He always did the same thing before a big show, right