Page 133 of At First Dance
I throw my arms around his neck, laughing and crying all at once. “Yes.”
He kisses me with everything he has, and when he finally slides the ring onto my finger, it glints in the fairy light like it’s always belonged there.
“Guess I’ll have to write another song,” I whisper against his mouth.
Rowan grins. “Make it a long one. I’m not going anywhere.”
By the time we return to the main park area, the sky has turned the deepest shade of navy—stars blinking to life overhead while the music and laughter carry on. I still feel his kiss on my lips. The weight of the ring on my finger. The hum of everything that just happened was vibrating through my chest like a second heartbeat.
We haven’t said anything to anyone yet, and Rowan keeps glancing down at my hand like he’s double-checking it’s real.
“Your mom’s gonna know the second she sees us,” I murmur, elbowing him lightly as we approach the long string of picnic tables again. “You’re basically glowing.”
“I am not glowing,” he grumbles.
“You’re totally glowing,” I tease, brushing my hand along his back. “I bet Holt makes a joke before dessert.”
Rowan lets out a breath of amusement but doesn’t deny it.
The tables are lit with paper lanterns now, soft flickers of light bobbing gently from shepherd’s hooks staked into the grass. The whole thing feels like a scene out of a movie—rustic and charming and warm enough to thaw the part of me that used to live on defense.
Bailey spots us first. Her brows shoot up, then drop just as fast as she turns and pretends to be wildly interested in folding a napkin.
I notice. “She always this bad at pretending she’s not watching?”
“Worse,” Rowan says.
Right on cue, Crew’s headed toward the table with two sodas in hand. His eyes find Bailey immediately, and before he even opens his mouth, she pivots on her heel and beelines toward the dessert table like she’s been summoned by a cherry pie.
Rowan snorts. “That’s gotta be the fifth time tonight.”
“Seventh, actually,” I whisper. “I’ve been counting.”
Crew slows, defeated but not surprised, then drops into the seat beside Lila with a theatrical groan.
“Denied again?” she asks, not even trying to hide her grin.
“She treats me like I’m contagious.”
“You are. It’s called delusional confidence.”
“I call it stubbornness—a common Wright trait.”
I catch Rowan’s eye, and we both laugh. There’s something so easy about being back with his family—no expectations, no filtered conversations. Just this beautiful, chaotic crew of people who’ve made room for me in ways I never expected.
Hadley waves us over and immediately loops her arm through mine. “Okay, tell me everything. What was that song? You were glowing.”
Rowan snickers behind me, but I ignore him.
“I wrote it about the farm,” I lie—mostly. “And maybe a little about your brother.”
“A little?” Hadley replies, shooting Rowan a look. “He looked like he was about to cry.”
“I was not about to cry,” he mutters.
“Was too,” she and Lila say in unison.
Before he can argue, his mom walks up with a tray of drinks, her eyes falling to my left hand as she hands me a lemonade.
