Page 11 of At First Dance
“Plans?” he asks, drying his hands.
“Bailey texted,” I say. “Said I need to try the cinnamon twists before Coral Bell Cove runs out forever.”
“She’s not wrong.” His mouth tilts. “I’ll run you into town if you want.”
The offer lands like the hoodie did—simple, unshowy, and kind. I should hesitate, but I don’t.
“I want.”
After a quick change of my clothes into something less… sleepywear, and tossing Rowan’s sweatshirt in the washing machine with plans to confiscate it later, I meet Rowan, who’s waiting patiently by his truck, hands tucked casually in his pockets. We take the long way into town, which turns out to be the only way. The road threads between pines, dips past a marsh that flashes silver when the wind skims it, and then climbs just enough that the bay throws a wink through a gap in the trees.
Rowan doesn’t talk to fill space. He points, sometimes.
“Old bird sanctuary.“
“Don’t park by that oak—wasp’s nest.”
“If you want the best tomatoes, skip Main Street and ask Mrs. Kline at the end of Dock Lane.”
I memorize it all like a person who might need these facts more than she needs industry awards.
Bailey’s already outside the bakery when we pull up, holding a paper bag like it’s a relay baton and this is the handoff. She spots me through the windshield and grins big enough to light the sidewalk.
“There she is,” she sings, pulling me inside. The doorbell chirps and the air changes—cold and sweet, butter curling under my tongue just from breathing. “You’re in luck. Cinnamon twists are still warm.”
“Hi to you, too,” I say, laughing.
Rowan trails us, tips the girl at the register like he always has cash exactly where he needs it, and leans a shoulder against the wall while Bailey presses a twist into my hand. Sugar dusts my fingers, which is how I end up licking it off like a scandal in slow motion. The pastry is still soft in the middle, sticky at the edges, and I make that noise again.
Bailey fans herself. “Okay, ma’am.”
“Do you sell these in bulk?”
“Only if you promise not to sue us when your nutritionist cries.”
“Joke’s on you,” I say. “She doesn’t believe in joy.”
Rowan’s mouth quirks; his eyes do, too. I’ve started noticing that his gaze warms when something genuinely amuses him, a sunbeam through branches, here and gone.
We hop down the street to the bookstore, where the air tastes like paper and hope. Bailey’s pride and joy. I trail my fingers over spines, whisper hello to the section where my music sits in glossy coffee table collections I pretend not to notice, and end up in front of a shelf of essayists. I pick up a book about living slower and laugh under my breath.
Bailey appears at my elbow like a well-meaning ghost. “That one made me cry on a Tuesday and then bake bread.”
“High praise.”
“You a paperback or hardcover girl?” she asks, already reaching.
“Paperback,” I say, then lower my voice like I’m confessing. “And I dog-ear.”
“To jail with you,” she says, solemn. “But I’ll visit.”
I add two books to the stack—one about beekeeping because I’m a chameleon now, apparently, and one about small towns because I want to see if it gets this right—and hand Rowan the bag when it’s time to check out. He takes it like he was waiting to have a reason to carry something for me.
We make it three storefronts before Bailey hooks her thumb over her shoulder. “Surprise,” she says to me. “No telling.”
“I’m right here,” Rowan notes, dry as a pasture in August.
“Then stop having ears,” she shoots back, and links her arm through mine. “Come on. He can survive twenty minutes without us.”
