He shoves against me, my body thumping against the railing and blocked from escaping by his.

“Jameson...” Cali calls, her voice hesitant. Unsure.

But I ignore her and so does he, if he heard her at all.

He’s fuming, his body flexing over and over again.

Scott’s shouts reach us from below, he screams for someone to grab the hose, barking for another to check the right side of the field.

Ransom’s eyes snap over my shoulder, toward the vineyards, and then he flicks his gaze to the deep plunge neck of my dress, to the high slit over my thigh.

Ah, of course.

It’s what I’m wearing that’s pushed him to show up tonight.

Not who I came with, why I ignored them all day.

Why I’m chasing a strong buzz, seeking comfort I shouldn’t and had never needed before he came in and warped my mind.

The stupid fucking dress is his concern, because how dare I...

My lips part with a low, drunken chuckle and I relax. Lifting my hands, I glide them along the cool metal behind me until my arms are stretched to their full length. I push up onto my toes, keeping my knee bent so the fabric slides off my skin, completely baring the smoothness there for any who wish to look.

I jerk when his hand darts out, gripping the material at its deepest V point and twists, balling it into his fist.

“This.” His voice is crisp, fixed, but only for me. “Is mine.”

“It was a gift.”

His knuckles press into my breastbone, his head lifting slightly, allowing me a somewhat better look. “I’m not talking about the fucking dress.”

I nearly choke on air, my eyes widening, only to narrow a moment later.

Me?

A heavy ache pushes against my ribs, but I don’t show it.

His?

“Yeah, mine.” He’s somehow closer. “The girl and what she’s wearing.” His wild eyes pop up. “Mine.”

I swallow.

Deny, deny, deny.

Love kills.

“You can have the dress—”

“I have the girl,” he snaps, my words clogging in my throat as the pad of his finger taps at my temple. “I’m in here.”

The hand gripping my top shifts, his knuckle now pressing near my left breast where my treacherous heart beats against him, as if begging to be heard or felt or any other stupid thing it knows I won’t want to ask for. “Getting close to here.”

His brows raise as he dares to slip beneath my dress, and right as a flash of fake blonde makes herself seen in the distance, purposely rounding us like a thirsty little vulture. “Been here—”

“Have you?” flies from me as I fight to slam the walls back into place, over my mind, my heart, and everything since he’s all over me, bleeding into the wounds I’ve kept patched with salon trips and smiles.

He freezes.