Page 5 of At First Dance
“Exactly.”
We drift to the edge of the porch when the inevitable line dance tries to organize itself without music. She watches, amused and unthreatened, bare toes pressing crescents into the cool painted wood. Close-up, the flower crown is listing like a boat; a strand of blond escapes, tracing the same path I smoothed earlier. I reach to fix it before I think better of it, then my hand closes on the railing instead. I’m not doing that in front of half the county.
“Why Coral Bell Cove?” I ask.
She takes a slow sip, eyes on the yard. “Returning something to Crew. Getting away from something else.”
“That jacket.”
She doesn’t flinch. “Yeah.”
“You want me to get him?”
Her gaze flicks to me. “I don’t know yet.”
I respect that. “Alright.”
We watch a while longer—Lila in Dean’s arms, his hands bracketed at her waist like he found the exact place she’s anchored. The light warms, then leans; the band slips into a waltz that half the town fakes. Ivy’s shoulders soften in increments I can track. Her mouth keeps finding the same almost smile, like she’s remembering how.
By the time the cake is cut and the kids have weaponized frosting, the margin between noise and night shrinks. The cooler air pulls people toward shawls and porch steps. I find the swing empty and tip my head toward it. “You want quiet.”
“Please,” she says with relief, and I give her the corner without making a thing of it.
The swing creaks as we set an easy rock. From here, you can see the silhouettes of the oaks against the bruising sky, the barn glow, the slow orbit of lightning bugs like somebody tossed glitter and it learned to breathe.
We sit in the kind of pause that tells on you. If you panic, it’s awkward. If you trust it, it’s peace.
“You’ve got a place to stay?” I ask because this is where responsibility lives, and I know for a fact the one inn with a vacancy sign tonight is lying.
She exhales. “No hotel will be thrilled about me showing up. I’m trying not to ruin things for… anyone.”
“Alright.” I keep my elbows on my knees and my voice simple. “I have a guest cottage. Bed’s made. Kitchenette. It’s quiet. No one will bother you there.”
She turns so fast the swing stutters. “That’s—are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
Her brows knit. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough.”
“What if I’m a terrible houseguest?”
“Then you’ll fit right in,” I say dryly. “Crew crashes my fridge, Bailey steals my tools, and my sister Hadley leaves floral tape everywhere. I’m adaptable.”
Her laugh is a surprised little thing that punches air into my lungs. “What about your parents? Will they be okay with—”
“It’s my property. I decide who stays.”
“That is an unsettling amount of power.”
“Good news is I’m boring.”
She watches me for another beat, measuring. Not the calculation of a career girl looking for an angle. Just… a woman deciding whether her rib cage can unclench in a stranger’s orbit. “Okay,” she says finally. “I’ll take you up on it.”
“Alright.” I rise, the swing scritching under my thigh. “We can slip out the side.”
We thread the dark edge of the yard, where the light doesn’t press so hard. She puts her hand on the porch post as we go down the steps. I pretend I don’t want to take it. The night is cooler, with crickets sawing. Somewhere down by the water, a kid lights a sparkler, and the tiny hiss zips through the grass.
