Page 30 of At First Dance
I’m not even sure he’s home.
And if he is…
What if he doesn’t want me here?
What if he regrets offering the place?
What if I’m just a complication he didn’t ask for and doesn’t want to deal with?
What if he has someone home with him?
The thought hits like a cold hand to the back of my neck. My grip tightens on the wheel until the leather bites. I picture boot prints I don’t recognize on his porch, a laugh that isn’t mine drifting through his kitchen, and a lipstick smudge on a glass by the sink. I hate it—hate how fast the jealousy blooms, hot and shameful. He isn’t mine, not like that. I know it. I repeat it. It doesn’t stop the small, ugly ache from settling under my ribs.
“Be normal,” I mutter, practicing a smile that tastes like rain.
But then a gust of wind slams against the side of the car, and I jump, hands gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles go white. A flash of memory surges—bright lights, muffled voices, that awful helplessness of twitching limbs I can’t control. And just like that, I’m moving.
Out of the car. Up the steps. Knocking on the entry door before I can second-guess myself.
Please be home.
Please not tonight.
Please.
The door swings open with a jolt—and there he is. Shirt wrinkled. Jaw tight. The note I left still folded in his hand.
His eyes widen, just for a second, then narrow.
“Ivy?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
He stares at me. “What are you doing here?”
I swallow hard. “There’s a storm.” Ignoring how much that phrase is referencing—the weather, my life, my career, Crew—it’s a hurricane in motion.
His brows pinch together.
I rush to add, “I didn’t know where else to go.”
A beat passes.
“I’m not trying to be a problem,” I say quickly. “I just… I thought…”
A snap of lightning cracks across the sky. He steps aside without a word.
“Get in.”
My relief hits so fast I nearly sag.
I slip past him into the house. It still smells like hay and linen and something warm and earthy beneath it all—Rowan.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
He closes the door behind me with a soft click. Final. But not cold.
“I was just putting away the rest of dinner,” he says after a moment. “Hungry?”
