Page 38 of At First Dance
But when I opened my mouth and sang—really sang—the room went still.
It felt like someone saw me. A lot of someones.
Mama cried that night. Not out of pride, but because a door had opened. A crack in the universe, wide enough to shove a child through.
After that, everything changed.
No more weekends. No more spelling bees or slumber parties. Only voice lessons and auditions and a new name with a star stitched into its bones.
Ivy Quinn. Pop star in the making.
She never asked me what I wanted.
By the time she did, it was already too late.
The rubber boards creak under my boots as I step around the side of the barn, shielding my eyes from the late afternoon sun. I need something—anything—to quiet the noise in my head. And manual labor seems like the best option Otter Creek Farm has to offer.
Rowan has moved near the shed, arms deep in the back of an old four-wheeler. Probably to give me privacy during the call. I hadn’t even noticed his leaving.
My eyes are glued to his large body. His shirt clings to his back, damp with sweat. Grease streaks his forearm as he reaches for a socket wrench.
He glances over his shoulder, face shaded by the brim of his ball cap.
“You lost?”
“No,” I say, crossing my arms. “But I could be if it gets me out of my own head.”
Rowan studies me, then jerks his chin toward the paddock. “Gate’s sagging on the round pen. You ever hang a hinge strap?”
I lift a brow. “You asking if I can handle a drill?”
“Just asking if you’re a flight risk around power tools.”
“I’ll try not to impale myself.”
A long, hot minute later, we’re at the round pen where the top hinge has slipped, and the gate drags a half-moon in the dust. He hands me a pair of worn leather gloves.
“Here. Hold the gate square while I back the old bolts out.”
I slide the gloves on and shoulder the weight; palms braced against sun-warmed metal. It’s heavier than it looks. The strain wakes muscles I forgot I owned.
He loosens the hardware, then holds up a fresh hinge strap and a bag of carriage bolts. “You’re up. Drill the pilot holes. Level matters.”
He passes me the driver. It’s warm from his hand. He points at the tiny bubble level fixed to the housing. “Keep that centered. Feather the trigger—don’t mash it.”
I line it up, but the bit skitters, biting shallow. “It’s fighting me.”
“You’re letting your elbow float.” His voice is low at my shoulder, steady as shade. “Here.”
He steps in behind me—close but careful—his chest just brushing my back as he wraps one big hand around mine on the grip, the other settling lightly at my forearm to anchor it. Heat rolls off him, slow and sure. The world narrows to cedar, sun, and the weight of his body guiding mine.
“Lock your wrist,” he murmurs, breath grazing my cheek. “Let the tool do the work. Straight in.”
I adjust, and he stays with me, shaping the angle until the bit bites clean and sings. The vibration travels through my fingers and up my arm, straight to someplace that has nothing to do with carpentry.
“Like that,” he says.
My breath stutters. “Got it.”
