Page 46 of At First Dance
I want it more than my next breath. Or more than the sleep that never comes.
The sun is just starting to rise when I slip my boots on and head outside.
I haven’t slept more than a couple of minutes. Can’t. Every time I close my eyes, I see her—those wide, tired eyes in the lamplight. That curve of her lips when I barely kissed her. The way she doesn’t pull back.
Hell, I can’t even be angry with her for staying in the guesthouse. I offered. I wanted her to say yes. And now that she has, I’m unraveling like barbed wire in a thunderstorm.
The morning air is sharp and dewy, the gravel cool underfoot as I cross the yard. I avoid looking at the cottage. I don’t trust myself not to knock on the door.
Instead, I head for the barn. Feed first. Then stalls. Keep moving. Keep my mind out of dangerous places.
I’m tossing hay when I hear footsteps behind me. I don’t have to turn around to know it’s her. The air changes when Ivy walks into a room. Subtle but real. Like the quiet before lightning cracks.
“You’re up early,” she says softly.
I keep working, jaw tight. “Farm doesn’t care if you sleep like shit.”
A pause.
“You’re mad at me,” she says.
That makes me turn. She stands in the doorway in that damn sweatshirt again, her hair pulled into a messy braid, eyes soft but unreadable.
“I’m not mad,” I say.
She lifts a brow.
I sigh. “I’m mad at me. There’s a difference.”
She takes a few slow steps into the barn. “Rowan, nothing happened really.”
“Something happened.”
“A peck doesn’t count.”
I stare at her, tired and exposed and about five seconds from giving in to everything I’ve sworn I wouldn’t.
She looks away first. “Look, I don’t regret it. I just… I didn’t mean to make things messy.”
I toss a forkful of hay into the stall. “Too late.”
Silence stretches between us like a rubber band pulled too tight.
Then she clears her throat. “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other night. About the camp.”
I flinch. “It’s not happening.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t have the time. Or the help. Or the funds. Or—”
“Or maybe you’re scared it won’t be perfect.” She crosses her arms.
I turn slowly. “Excuse me?”
“You’re afraid it’ll flop. Or that the town’ll talk. Or that people won’t think it’s good enough. So instead of trying, you shut it down.”
I blink at her. “You don’t know me.”
