Page 55 of Lost in the Reins

Martha's Diner looks like Pinterest and a harvest festival had a baby, then doused it in enough twinkle lights to be visible from space. I stop in the doorway, still a little wobbly from our recent battle with the plague, and seriously consider faking a relapse.

"Don't even think about it." Wes’s voice rumbles behind me, low and steady, right before his palm settles at the small of my back like it belongs there. "If I have to endure this, so do you."

"Misery loves company, huh?" I aim for sarcasm, but it comes out softer than intended. Maybe it’s the lingering effects of spending three days on his couch, sharing tissues and the worst TV known to mankind. Or maybe it’s just how he still hasn’t moved his hand.

"Paisley! Wes!" Martha materializes like a party-planning tornado, clipboard clutched in one hand, sheer determination in the other. "Oh, thank goodness you're both back among the living. We have a crisis!"

"Define crisis," Wes says, his hand finally leaving my back. I tell myself I don’t miss the warmth.

"The square dance formations are a mess! The couples’ competition is in shambles! The fairy lights are staging a rebellion!"

I glance at Wes. "That sounds…dire."

"Truly tragic. Thoughts and prayers," he deadpans, but there’s the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips.

Martha is unfazed. "You two need to practice the dance. Immediately."

Wes stiffens beside me. "The what now?"

"The dance competition! You signed up weeks ago. You’re still in, right?" Martha beams at us like she's handing out free pie instead of guaranteed public humiliation.

My instinct is to laugh it off and politely decline, but something in the way Wes's entire body tenses, like a man facing a firing squad, makes mischief spark to life.

"Of course, we are."

His head snaps toward me so fast I half expect to hear a vertebra crack. I keep my attention on Martha, steadfastly ignoring the laser-focused stare drilling into the side of my face.

"Wonderful!" She claps her hands and starts repositioning tables. "Let's get you two warmed up."

And that is how I find myself standing in the middle of Martha’s Diner at ten in the morning, hand-in-hand with a cowboy who looks like he’d rather be wrestling a bull.

"Closer," Martha instructs, physically nudging us together until my chest brushes against his. "It’s a partner dance, not a tax audit."

Wes exhales sharply through his nose but places his other hand on my waist anyway. It’s warm and steady, and I am suddenly hyperaware of the sheer size of him, of the way he completely surrounds me.

"Just follow my lead," he murmurs, voice lower than before. "I won’t let you fall."

The words shouldn’t make my breath hitch, but they do.

Martha starts counting, and Wes moves. I try to follow. Truly, I do. But my feet seem to have forgotten their job, and within seconds, I’m teetering. Wes tightens his grip, pulling me in closer, keeping me from disaster.

"Relax," he says, amusement threading through his voice. "You're supposed to let me lead."

“And you think I know how to do that?”

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, so close I feel it against my own. "You don’t say."

Somewhere behind us, Martha is making encouraging noises, but I barely hear her. Because Wes is looking at me in a way that makes the entire diner fade away. Like he did during those quiet, fever-blurred nights on his couch. Like he’s still trying to figure out what this is between us.

"See? Not so bad," he murmurs, his thumb absently tracing circles on my waist. Definitely not part of the official choreography.

"Says the man not wearing heels."

"You're not wearing heels either."

"Details." I stumble again, but he catches me effortlessly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

"You know," I say, aiming for nonchalance despite my heart hammering, "in my books, this would be the part where the heroine magically knows all the steps."

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