Page 50 of At First Dance
I wrap my fingers tighter around the chipped mug Rowan left in the cabinet—it saysI Brake for Pie, and somehow, it’s become my favorite. The coffee inside is bitter and too strong, but it grounds me. Anchors me to a place that feels… like it might be something more than temporary.
I haven’t seen Rowan since last night.
We haven’t talked about the kiss anymore. Or the way his voice went ragged when he said I didn’t have to go. But I feel it. All of it. Like an echo I can’t shake.
I spent the night replaying every second—the way his eyes darkened when I touched him and the rasp of his breath when our lips brushed. How he looked like he wanted to run and stay all at once. And how I did too.
I mean to give him space today. Let the tension settle. Let things breathe. But I don’t make it past the first sip of coffee.
A sleek black car rolls up the drive like it’s been conjured by my worst nightmare.
I blink, heart stuttering in my chest.
No. No, no, no.
The door opens with that same expensive sigh every luxury car seems to have, and out steps a woman in oversized sunglasses, a linen suit, and four-inch heels that have no business being on gravel.
My mother.
“Evangeline!” she calls, arms wide like this is some twisted family reunion. “There you are.”
I don’t move. Maybe if I stay very still, like a deer in a field, she’ll lose interest. She doesn’t.
Instead, she waves off the driver—a new one—and struts up the path like she hasn’t just dropped a bomb on my morning. The car stays put… at least that’s something in my favor today.
Gravel crunches like a warning before the black sedan even clears the oaks. Perfume hits the porch a beat before she does—sharp, expensive, uninvited. Celeste steps out in linen and sunglasses the size of small satellites. Even blocked, I know her eyes sweep the cottage like she’s appraising a fixer-upper.
“Well,” she says, taking off the glasses with a practiced sigh. “I had to come all the way out to the middle of nowhere to make sure my daughter wasn’t chopped up into tiny pieces and lying in a ditch somewhere. Imagine my surprise to see you hale and hearty—and looking decidedly homeless.”
“Mama,” I say flatly. “What are you doing here?”
She glides past me into the shade of the porch, gaze catching on my sweatshirt, my bare feet, the mug. “You stopped answering your phone. Your team escalated. The label asked for eyes on you, not ‘I need space’ texts from a mystery ZIP code.”
“I told you I’m fine.”
“You’re hiding in a borrowed cottage in a town that doesn’t have a proper juice bar,” she replies, her smile cool and camera-ready. “That’s not fine, Evangeline. That’s avoidance.”
I fold my arms. “Still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
“It explains it perfectly.” She taps a cream-colored envelope against her palm. “We’ve got fittings, a creative call for the fall rollout, two quick stills for the Lanova contract addendum, and a brand segment the network wants on thecalendar before quarter close. All of which you’ve pushed once. I’m not leaving it to chance—or to your reception out here.”
“I’m not going to Nashville,” I say, steady.
She blinks, tilting her head. “You don’t get to make that call alone. Not when there are signatures, schedules, and seven figures of ad spend with your face attached.”
“I’m a person, not a purchase order.”
“And I’m your mother, not your concierge,” she answers, voice like velvet pulled tight over wire. “Which is why I came to lay eyes on you, confirm you weren’t dead in a ditch, and deliver this.” She slides the envelope onto the little table by the rocking chair like a summons. “Call sheet. Fitting times. Car service details.”
I don’t touch it. “You drove all the way out here to drop off paper?”
“I flew,” she corrects, crisp. “And I’ll be at the Needle Palm on Main Street until tomorrow afternoon. I’ve told them to hold the suite. A car will be outside this cottage at five. If you’re not in it, I’ll let the label know you’re refusing to meet contractual obligations. They will escalate. You will not like how.”
Across the yard, I see movement—Rowan, half in shadow under the oaks, jaw set but not interfering. Every inch of him is a line that readsI’m herewithout making me pick a side. It steadies me and makes my throat ache in the same breath.
Celeste follows my glance and takes him in, filing him away with the same clinical efficiency she applies to budgets. “Is that the cowboy?”
I say nothing.
