Page 78 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

“Dawson has something to tell you,” he says to me, raising an eyebrow.

“Later,” Dawson says.

I try to read more into this weird exchange, but we hit traffic at the turnoff to the festival and I have to concentrate on following the maze of roads and flashing lights from the parking attendants to find a spot.

We join the other music fans filtering through the rows of cars to the entrance, blankets and camp chairs tucked under their arms. Inside the grounds, I flash the passes Jared gave me, and we continue. Distant music from the stage at the far end of the field blends with the low hum of generators from the food trucks lined up like freight cars and the conversations and laughter from our fellow concertgoers.

“Hungry?” I ask.

Dawson is studying the program he picked up at the entrance.

Quinn shakes his head. “When’s Jared playing?”

My tummy flutters. “Ten thirty.”

“Let’s work up an appetite,” Quinn says with a wink.

I laugh. He likely means dancing, but my mind goes straight to the gutter.

We file into the mainstage grounds, an open field facing a stage flanked by giant speakers. A trio of fiddlers are playing, their tight harmony catchy and upbeat. Some of the crowd are jumping around while others sit in chairs nodding along to the beat.

“Wow,” Dawson says.

“Does it bring up bad memories?” I ask, wincing.

He gives me a thoughtful glance. “No, only good ones.”

I smile. Quinn takes my hand and twirls me, making me laugh. After we work our way down toward the front of the crowd, the three of us dance and laugh at ourselves until my stomach hurts and sweat coats the back of my neck.

For a breather, we stroll the vendor booths displaying everything from mason jar gardens to hand-thrown pottery to custom-made leather shoes while music from the mainstage filters through the din.

At a jewelry booth, Dawson whispers, “I like yours better.”

I send him a scolding glance, but he grabs my hand and tugs me away. I expect him to let go, but he doesn’t. Quinn stops to browse a collection of hand-painted neckties. The crowds of people passing by us flow like water, creating an island that’s just ours. I smile, and Dawson smiles back. A bold, reckless feeling rises through me. The festival crowd fades, leaving me with a pounding heart and desire coiling from the hollow place inside me.

Quinn returns with his prize—a handsome blue silk tie with silver dots and pale blue brush strokes. “He had one painted with tiny little rainbow trout. I might have to come back for it.”

“You’d wear a tie with fish on it?” I ask.

“With pride,” he says. “It’ll remind me of our adventures every time I wear it.”

My face prickles, but I look away before either of them can notice my reaction. I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s talking about life after they leave. They have their world to return to. Our time together will end whether I want it to or not.

“Let’s get our spot,” I say over the din.

Dawson and Quinn follow, laughing and joking. I scold myself for dwelling on what I can’t change.

Tonight is for us.

ChapterTwenty

LEXIE

The open fieldis now crowded with people sitting on blankets or in camp chairs, some standing on the fringes sipping from plastic cups. Near the stage, people are dancing or swaying in place to the music.

The band finishes their set with a tender harmony, and the crowd erupts with applause.

“Thank you,” the lead singer croons into the mic.

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