Page 42 of At First Dance
He clears his throat. “Walk?”
“Please,” I say, because staying means doing something we can’t undo.
We slip along the park’s edge, past the hum of grills and the sweet scorch of corn, down the sandy path where the bay lies itself out in ink and silver. Behind us is laughter, a guitar’s loose chorus, and kids tracing stars with sparklers that spit and fade. Up by the tree line, a couple drifts into the shadows, and the night politely looks away.
At the truck, he opens my door but doesn’t step back. Lantern glow threads gold through the scruff along his jaw and finds the tiny scar at his temple. We stand too close, breath mingling, the kind of nearness that hums in the space where words would go. My fingers skim the doorframe, and his knuckles brush mine. Static jumps. Neither of us moves for a full, suspended second.
A sparkler crackles, and someone whoops. The couple emerges laughing, and the world widens by an inch. He shifts first—just enough to let air through—then reaches past me to steady the handle, forearm warm along my shoulder. I climb in, heart loud, and he closes the door softly like it matters.
On the drive back, windows down, the night pouring cool over our wrists, our hands keep finding each other on the bench seat and retreating. Back of his fingers to the back ofmine. A quiet apology. A quiet promise. No talking. Just the road unwinding and the same thought pulsing between us, bright as a sparkler’s last flare. Not here, not yet.
Chapter Seven – Rowan
The road home curves under the moonlight, the truck tires crunching softly over gravel as I keep both hands on the wheel and both eyes decidedly on the windshield.
Not the woman next to me.
Not the goddamn song still ringing in my head.
And definitely not the way my chest squeezes when she sings about wildflowers like she’s lived that lyric.
Because Ivy Quinn isn’t a song.
She isn’t a moment.
She’s a headline waiting to happen—and I have no business feeling like I want to hear her voice on my porch every damn night for the rest of my life. My mother always said when I found the one, I would fall fast and hard, just like my father. I didn’t believe her then, and I am trying my damnedest not to believe her now.
“You’re quiet,” she says finally, her voice softer than the leather seat beneath her.
I don’t look over. I can’t. “Tired.”
She hums in response, fingers toying with the hem of her shirt. “You’re not a very good liar.”
I crack a wry smile, still staring straight ahead. “Never claimed to be.”
Silence falls again, but it’s not the comfortable kind we’ve managed a few times before. This one thrums with something I don’t want to name—heat, maybe. Possibility. The kind of thing that sneaks in when your defenses are too tired to hold it off.
I clear my throat, reaching to turn the AC knob. “You didn’t have to sing tonight.”
“I wanted to.”
“It showed.”
She glances over at me. I can feel it even though I don’t return the look.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s not.”
But it could be for me. That’s the problem. Everything about her feels like more. More heat. More pull. More mess. And I’ve built my whole adult life around avoiding mess.
“You were good,” I say, finally giving in to the truth. “The whole town will be talking about it for weeks.”
“Good.” She leans her head against the window. “Then they won’t be talking about how I borrowed your hoodie or how Butterscotch blesses me with a sneeze as a greeting.”
I huff. “That’s your thing now.”
A beat passes.
