Page 116 of At First Dance
She shivers in my arms, fingers clutching my shirt. “I never wanted to be anywhere else.”
“Then stay forever.”
“That’s the plan.”
I crush my mouth to hers again. This time, the kiss isn’t for show or stage lights. It’s slow. Deep. Familiar in the way only something you’ve been dreaming about for too long can feel.
I walk her backward until her hips hit the counter beside the tack hooks, and she gasps when my hand slips under her shirt, fingers brushing just across her ribs.
But we stop there. The moment isn’t about lust, it’s about grounding.
We rest there for minutes—foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in the quiet of the barn.
Outside, the camp excitement continues to flicker, and kids giggle in the distance. But in here, I finally feel whole.
Chapter Twenty-two – Ivy
He planned this. I can tell the second we reach the top of the ladder and the loft blooms warm with light.
After Bailey packs the last of the picture books and the kids tumble down the lane sticky with lemonade, Rowan murmurs, “Help me shut down the barn?” and palms the ladder like it’s nothing. When I climb up behind him, the string lights wink on—soft, low, and gold instead of bright—looped along the rafters like fireflies that decided to stay. There’s a quilt spread over the smoothest boards, two pillows, a small battery fan turning lazy circles, and a dented thermos with tin cups. On a crate, he’s laid out apples, cheddar, and the last two peach hand pies from the cooler like a man who pretends he doesn’t know how to make a moment and then makes one anyway.
“It’s not much,” he says, that shy edge he gets when he cares too loudly. “Figured we could… cool down. Hear the creek.”
It smells like hay and clean wood. The lights don’t flicker—they’re the warm kind—and I clock that detail like a love note. No surprises for my brain. He thought about it. He always does.
I settle on the quilt and fold my legs under me while he lingers at the rail, looking out at the dusk settling over the pasture like he needs the horizon to steady himself. His shoulders are loose, but his hands are braced—one of those Rowan tells that says there’s a lot inside and he’s choosing where to put it.
“Come sit,” I say, patting the quilt. He comes halfway, then stops, watching me like I’m the song he can’t get out of his head.
“Rowan,” I whisper, the crickets taking the rest of the volume. “Talk to me.”
He doesn’t, not with words. He crosses the space in three strides and drops to his knees in front of me, mouth finding mine like he’s been holding his breath since the first kid asked me to sing. The kiss is sure and hungry and a little wrecked. I fall back onto the quilt and pull him with me, fingers fisting in his shirt, the soft halo of those lights turning the world small and golden.
“I missed you,” I breathe against his lips.
He groans, low and rough, sliding his mouth to my throat, a hand framing my jaw like I’m something fragile he refuses to fumble. “You don’t get to vanish again,” he says into my skin. “You don’t get to walk in, sing a song like that, and make me feel like—”
“Like what?”
He pulls back just enough to look down at me, his hands braced on either side of my head.
“Like I’m yours.”
My chest aches. “You are.”
The words break something open between us.
He kisses me again, slower this time, his weight pressing into mine as he slides his hand beneath my tank top. My skin shivers at his touch, and I arch into him, needing more—of him, of this, of the connection I’ve been starving for since Nashville.
Clothes disappear. His T-shirt. My shorts. The soft cotton of my underwear.
And then we’re tangled together, skin to skin, under the soft glow of the lights. Rowan’s mouth trails fire down my stomach, his hands rough and reverent as he explores every inch of me like he’s memorizing the landscape.
He settles between my thighs, lifting one over his shoulder, and when his mouth finds me—
“Rowan,” I gasp, my fingers clenching the quilt.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even pause. He licks and sucks and groans against me like he’s never tasted anything better.
