Page 70 of At First Dance
By the time the first fire engine rolls up, the worst of it’s under control. Blackened patches smolder like dying coals, and the edge closest to the road is soaked through with bucket after bucket of water.
The Seabrook County crew steps in to finish containment and run a perimeter check. Their truck’s lights swirl red over the grass, casting an eerie glow that feels more like relief than warning.
I lean against the tailgate of my truck, my shirt sticking to my skin, every muscle aching. But I don’t feel it. Because she’s standing five feet away.
Ivy.
Hands on her hips, cheeks streaked with soot, lips parted as she catches her breath.
She meets my eyes like she’s daring me to say something. Anything.
“You shouldn’t have come,” I say, voice hoarse.
She walks closer, slowly. “I had to.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“You needed help.”
I shake my head. “I needed not to have to worry about you running headfirst into a damn brush fire.”
She lifts her chin, unfazed. “I’m not fragile, Rowan.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You implied it.”
“I—” I scrub a hand over my face, hating how her presence scrambles every part of me. “You just shouldn’t be here.”
She steps in, close enough I can smell the smoke tangled in her hair. “You mean here at the fire… or here at all?”
I can’t answer that.
I look at her. Really look. At the soot on her cheek. The stubborn set of her jaw. The way her hand twitches like she’s debating whether to touch me.
And God help me, I want her to. I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just… wait. Then her fingers brush my wrist. Just a featherlight touch and the dam nearly breaks. My heart kicks in my chest. My throat tightens.
“Ivy—”
A voice behind us cuts through the moment.
“Danner’s fence line is good, but the north corner’s still steaming.”
We both turn away from each other like we weren’t about to fall into something dangerous.
She grabs a bottle of water and tosses it to me. “Try not to collapse before dinner.”
I catch it, unscrewing the cap with shaking fingers as she smiles and walks away.
The drive back to the farm is quiet in the way two vehicles can be—her headlights pinned to my tailgate and my eyes flicking to the mirror every few seconds to make sure she’s still there. Smoke rides home with us, caught in my shirt and in the crease where her neck met her collarbone when I saw her by the field—ash smeared there, a thin scrape above her knee. I slow for the washboard ruts, throw my blinker on early at the lane so she doesn’t miss the turn, and keep the speed steady like a hand on the small of a back.
Gravel chatters under my tires as I pull into the drive and swing wide so she can tuck in by the cottage. We kill our engines within the same breath. Two doors thud open into the quiet, and we meet in the heat-hazed space between our vehicles. She’s got that brave face on—chin up, mouth set.
“You okay?” I ask, already scanning.
“Physically? Sure.” She huffs a laugh that’s more air than humor. “Emotionally? Ask me in an hour.”
“Come on.” I tip my head toward the porch. “Let’s get that cleaned.”
