Page 3 of At First Dance
We’re halfway around the house when the moment I’ve been stupidly trying to avoid happens. She reaches up, futilely patting at that wind-battered ponytail again, jaw tight, a little frayed at the edges. Frazzled. Human.
“Hold still,” I murmur.
I stop. Turn. And with her chin tipped up, Igently free the snag where her hair caught in the curve of her earring. My fingers slide lower as I smooth the side back, not touching skin, but so closewe both feel it. The air thickens. She looks up, lipsparted. The world narrows to my breath and a strand of blond pinned behind her ear.
“Rowan.” She whispers my name like a secret.
“Yeah,” I answer, rougher than I mean to.
“OH MY GOD!”
My older sister Lila’s voice detonates like a champagne cork from the backyard. “You brought Ivy Quinn to my wedding?!”
And that—unsurprisingly—ends it.
Lila comes in hot, satin skirts swishing like she’s cutting water. I think about stepping between them for a half second. I don’t. Ivy straightens on her own, sunglasses slid back into place like she remembered she owns armor.
“You’re gorgeous,” Lila blurts, then clamps both of Ivy’s hands in hers like they’ve known each other since Girl Scouts. “I mean—hi—welcome—oh my God, I’m Lila, and I’m not usually like this, but today, I am absolutely like this.”
“Hi.” Ivy laughs, the tension around her eyes easing. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” Lila breathes, and for once, there’s no follow-up plan spilling out of her. Just joy. “Eat. Drink. I can’t believe Crew invited you and didn’t tell me.” I don’t miss the way Ivy’s eyebrows shoot up toward the sky as her eyes dart over to mine.
Thankfully, Lila’s swept up by the maid of honor—Ashvi with the flower crown—before I can threaten to revoke speech privileges. The rest of the yard clocks Ivy in a ripple—heads lift, whispers bump, then everything smooths again. Coral Bell Cove is nosy but not cruel.
People go back to shepherding toddlers and topping off tea and arguing about the correct way to hang lights, giving Ivy a chance to breathe. Immediately, I swoop in.
“Okay?” I ask, low.
She tips her chin. “Okay.”
“Good.” I nod toward the drinks. “You want something?”
“In a minute.”
We move through the edges—shady side of the oaks, where the breeze threads cool fingers through shirts. I keep half a step ahead, not to lead, just to clear space—an aunt here, a chair there. She tracks like she’s used to slipping past cameras and elbows. She’s also barefoot by the time we hit the grass, heels dangling from her fingers. It shouldn’t be something I notice, yet I do anyway.
Bailey spots us first—dark hair in a scarf, sundress, brain like a switchboard operator. She’s the owner of our town bookstore and someone I look at like an additional sister.
“Ivy Quinn, as I live and breathe,” Bailey says, but she says it like the name is a person, not a product. “I’m Bailey. By the look of things, I nominate myself as your handler for the next ten minutes.”
Ivy huffs out a real laugh. “I could use one of those.”
“Great, because I’m bossy.” Bailey tucks herself at Ivy’s elbow and aims them toward the dessert table. “We’re going to start you with tartlets and end with strawberry cake because I believe in building trust.”
“Go,” I tell Ivy when she looks at me like she’s asking for permission she doesn’t need. “Bailey won’t let you trip over my family.”
“He’s right,” Bailey says. “I’m a menace, but good at shielding.”
They peel off together. Far enough to feel like they’re on their own, but close enough that my protective instincts are satisfied. It takes all of thirty seconds for the air to soften around Ivy. Bailey tells a story with her hands, causing Ivy to laugh with her whole mouth. I find myself leaning against the porch post,arms folded, letting the sound run through the tight places I didn’t know I’d cinched shut.
Crew, my brother and quarterback for the Tennessee Stallions, finds me like a shadow. He’s got sunglasses pushed into his hair and a beer balanced in a way that says he’s thinking about nothing and also everything. That smug little brother grin’s in place, which means he’s bracing for sport.
“You look nice,” he says.
“Don’t,” I warn.
He follows my line of sight. “Huh.”
