Page 1 of At First Dance
Chapter One – Rowan
Of course, she’s in the ditch.
I ease the truck onto the shoulder. The gravelpop-popsunder the tires, and the afternoon heat climbs in through the open window like it belongs here. The road is just a skinny ribbon between scrub pine and marsh, and the electric car nose-dived where the drainage cut dips. It decided to jump the ditch and changed its mind halfway.
She stands beside it, one heel sinking into the soft mud, a long blond ponytail losing the fight with the wind. Oversized sunglasses cover half her face. The rest of her is purpose-built to draw eyes and test common sense: white ribbed tank under a drapey cardigan, shredded light-wash denim, the kind of delicate jewelry that looks like it costs a paycheck, and heels that were never meant for county roads. A phone is lifted in her hand, searching for a bar of service this stretch of county refuses to provide.
I roll to a stop twenty feet back and throw it in Park. Before I open my door, I take inventory like I always do—damage, surroundings, people. The wheel’s pitched wrong because the undercarriage probably kissed a culvert rock. No second car. No filmer tucked in the grass. A cow over the fence chews with judgment.
I climb out slowly, shut the door with the kind of quiet that says I mean no harm, and stay a step or two farther than I usually would. Hands open at my sides, I have nothing in my grip. I know what I look like to a woman alone on a road like this: six-one, broad, boots, and a jaw I never learned to soften.
“Hey,” I say, voice steady but not loud. “You alright?”
She startles, then sets her chin like she’s bracing for a headline. “Define ‘alright,’” she says, cool on the surface but frayed underneath.
I tip my head toward the car. “You’re not driving that anywhere today.”
“That’s a”—she exhales, lips flattening—“shame.”
I take two slow steps back—make space, show I’m not between her and any exit—then plant my feet and keep my palms visible. “Not gonna crowd you. Name’s Rowan.”
She tips her head, like she’s scrolling a file in her mind. “Rowan… Wright?” The question mark is there, but faint. “I saw a Christmas picture once—big house, goat on the porch. You were the one in the cowboy hat holding it like it weighed a ton.” She doesn’t step closer, but her shoulders ease a notch. “Didn’t realize I was this close to your place.”
She studies me from behind those lenses, if the way she chews on her bottom lip is any indication, and slides her phone into the back pocket of her pants. Wind catches the tail of her hair, and a few strands stick to her peach-glossed lips.
“Ivy,” she says finally.
It lands like a dropped glass. Ivy Quinn. My sister, Lila’s, playlist staple. The woman my brother, Crew, fake-dated for a year because someone with a spreadsheet said “synergy.” Everyone in the family treated it like it was real anyway—Ma set out an extra plate more than once, and Holt asked why Crew never brought her around. I kept my mouth shut and fixed fences. All I ever got from Crew was, “It’s work, Ro.” He never brought her home, which told me more than the press releases did.
Up close, the details click sharper: the clean line of that tank, the dusting of freckles across a sun-touched collarbone, and tiny hoops in her ears. No glitter. No bodyguard. Just a woman and a bad idea of a road. Through the tinted glass of thespaceship car’s back seat, a jacket’s slung half-out of a garment bag—navy, slim cut, the brand my brother grabs when cameras bother him. Looks like the one he left at her penthouse during their last PR “touchpoint,” if the gossip feeds can be trusted. So she drove out to return it herself or drop it at the carrier in town, clean and private. Less mess than handing it off in Nashville, where ten lenses live on every corner.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I say, because men never have to think to say it, and women are always calculating it. And even though she may recognize me, I’m still a stranger. Ted Bundy could be charming, too. “I’ll keep my distance.”
Her shoulders drop a fraction. “Thanks.”
“Where were you headed?”
She gestures at the car. “Away from here?”
“Good plan. Poor execution.”
A hairline crack of a smile appears. Then she rubs her temple. “It made a weird sound, and I overcorrected. I was returning”—she glances at the back seat, then hesitates—“a jacket. To someone who shouldn’t have left it where he did. I kind of left on a whim in the middle of the night.”
Crew. I don’t make her say it.
“Okay.” I blow out a breath and keep it practical. “I could tow you out after the wedding if you’re not leaking fluids. But that wheel’s stuck, and the underside probably isn’t pretty. Carl, the mechanic, can get you on a lift tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” she repeats, like the word is a cliff edge.
“Yeah.”
Silence creaks between us. She looks like she’s balancing ten stories on a spine that forgot how to bend. I do the only smart thing: make it safer.
“You can say no,” I add, and hook a thumb toward my truck. “But if you want out of here, I’ll get you to town. Or somewhere with air-conditioning.”
She eyes the truck. “And if this is the start of a murder documentary?”
My mouth kicks sideways. “Then I’m terrible at it. Give me your phone.”
